


Diplomacy

by the_diversionist



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, I wrote shadows to avoid writing this, but oh well, the longest story ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 323,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diversionist/pseuds/the_diversionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Trevelyan doesn't care for politics and games. Josephine searches for common ground that doesn't seem to exist. Leliana grapples with her faith. Trevelyan/ Josephine, eventual Trevelyan/ Leliana, Cassandra/ Hawke (F)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haven

A/N: This is a verrrryyyy long story that ended up becoming much longer than initially anticipated. While Josephine and Trevelyan feature heavily and exclusively for 20 chapters or so, their relationship does come to a close. That was not the original intention of this story, but it is how the story has played out. So save your time if that is not your cup of tea! However, there is plenty of lady love to be had and more on the way, regardless of Josephine and Trevelyan's relationship. Happy (or unhappy, or not at all) reading! Moved over from ff.net 

*

Haven is chilly. Fat snowflakes fall in spirals from the skies but all Evelyn sees is the giant rift, bright and splitting, making her hand ache. She's so focused on it that she nearly slams into Josephine.

"Ambassador Montilyet. I didn't think you ever left the chantry walls." Evelyn greets her only because their proximity would make it rude not to.

The Ambassador wears a tattered brown cloak that's much too shabby to be out of her personal collection. Evelyn finds a rip along the hood. The ground is hard but not muddy. She can't imagine the frilly ambassador with muddy shoes. They share nothing in common. Lady Josephine Montilyet is outgoing and oozes grace. Evelyn has been called reclusive and blunt.

Some would say Evelyn is drab in comparison. Ambassador Montilyet's deep olive skin is a contrast to Evelyn's, ivory and freckled, her hair is such a pale blonde it's cream. Her silver eyes have always been sensitive to light. As long as she's lived, others have not become accustomed to her peculiar looks for she always finds people staring. Although now, perhaps, for a different reason.

"I am bound by duty. It's difficult to get away, as you might imagine." Josephine looks up to the sky. "Although… I must admit I am not yet accustomed to this cold weather. A little detail Leliana neglected to mention. Does it ever stop?"

Josephine watches her, awaiting response. They've barely spoken since Evelyn joined the Inquisition. Evelyn doesn't know what to say to the woman, who's only ever been exceedingly polite. Not that that means anything in noble circles. For all she knows, Ambassador Montilyet detests her, though it's difficult to imagine the ambassador disliking anyone. Evelyn is no fan of politics and their diplomats. She hates the petty, underhanded games they play.

She has a great deal more in common with Seeker Pentaghast. She flushes warm thinking of the woman. She's late for their sparring date. "I don't think the snow  _ever_  stops in this shit hole." Josephine smiles carefully. She probably shouldn't have said that. She is likely not what they would have chosen for the Herald of Andraste. She fumbles for something to say. "You're from Antiva." She thinks. "It's—hot there."

"Oh, yes. Some days you can fry an egg on the cobblestone, but despite the heat and the fainting spells, Antiva is quite beautiful. We have the loveliest beaches. Have you ever been, Lady Trevelyan?"

Lady Trevelyan. She's seldom called that. Most don't regard women who wield greatswords as ladies. Her father surely doesn't. No doubt, he would have preferred a daughter like the ambassador. Ambassador Montilyet is cultured and charming. Try as her father did, she had no interest in going to Antiva or Orlais, and involving herself in their games. She was beckoned by Rivain and Nevarra, by their rebellion of how things are meant to be. Nor did her father see fit to take her on many family trips after a time. "Beaches and I don't get along." It's an excuse. What's there to like Antiva? There is the wine. That might be reason enough to visit. "The water reflects the sun. I burn easily."

"How unfortunate."

They make excuses and move on their way, Evelyn feeling lighter already. She's glad that's over with.

*

Haven is a curious place filled with hope, despair and the clanging of swords. Refugees trickle in by the day. The Inquisition is in its infancy and yet her list of work is endless. Already there are many in opposition of this Inquisition and the Herald. The tragedy at the Conclave has shaken everyone but the Maker (perhaps) blessed them with a pious, Andrastian noble: Evelyn Trevelyan. Or… a noble from a family that is known to be pious and Andrastian. What would have happened if the Herald was a Dalish, dwarf or qunari? She shudders to think of how much more rumor she'd have to combat, especially if they'd been a mage.

Josephine is still unsure of what to make of the Herald. She is a curious woman who keeps to herself and says little. She is tall, with eyes that glisten like the ocean on the most blinding of days. Her lips are the faintest shade of pink, a rose in its infancy. Her smiles are reserved. Her nature is most peculiar, especially given the violence with which she swings that greatsword of hers.

She must be very strong. Josephine cannot think of any Antivan woman who so proudly proclaims herself a warrior. Ah yes, Antivan women are allowed their duels, but they are duels of power, much like the Game. They rule behind the scenes, never so brazenly and rarely without a mercantile business of their own. No matter how soft the Herald's features, she would never be considered feminine in Antiva. No matter her noble blood, she would be questioned.

Presently, she spars with Cassandra. The Seeker has relaxed considerably since getting to know the Herald. She is not a mage, she is Andrastian and has proven eager to aid their cause. Their swords clash before Cassandra pushes Evelyn back. Cassandra lifts the shield, barely blocking the Herald's brutal blow. They continue their back and forth. Josephine can't recall the last time she saw either of them smile so much.

The Herald pushes the hair back from her face, talking somewhat animatedly to Cassandra before spotting Josephine in the distance. She lifts a reluctant hand, much like a petulant child might wave to a disliked relative at the insistence of a parent. Evelyn's smile is faint, brief, before returning to her sparring. Josephine doesn't notice Leliana step beside her. Leliana has transformed herself into shadows in the time since they last truly saw one another.

"Checking on our Herald?" Leliana asks.

"You are the one who suggested I take in this brisk air." It's too brisk. She shivers.

"What do you make of her?" Leliana isn't one to be misdirected.

"Ah, she seems pleasant enough." Even if she gets the distinct feeling that Lady Trevelyan does not care for her. "I cannot imagine her at court." Gaining the loyalty and support of the nobles, access to their coin will be imperative if the Inquisition is to succeed.

"Not all nobles have your grace and charm, Josie. Some have none at all."

She wonders if Leliana counts Evelyn amongst them. "I'm certain you have an opinion."

"She can seal the rifts in the sky and the people of Thedas are already calling her the Herald of Andraste. That is all we need. As long as they believe in her, it doesn't matter what she is. The Inquisition will succeed."

"You make her sound like a means to an end."

"She is. And a capable warrior. It will do." Leliana keeps her arms gingerly crossed, her face has an aloofness that is unrecognizable to Josephine. "Are you worried?"

Demons are spilling out of the sky, Thedas is at war and the Chantry has declared them the enemy. Of course she's worried. "There is a lot of work to be done."

Leliana smiles. It changes her entirely and Josephine recognizes the woman she met years ago. How she looked up to her then! She wanted so much to be like her. Now she can't imagine living that kind of life. "You've always fretted. Do not worry. It is nothing you're not up to. When we were looking for an ambassador for this inquisition, there was no other choice. You're the best and you have a talent for spinning hay into gold."

Josephine laughs softly. "Then I suggest you start gathering hay. We are going to need a lot of gold."

*

Evelyn dumps a pile of demon guts onto Minaeve's research table, checking the rucksack to make sure she's gotten everything before fishing out a few bony fingers with green skin stretched over them. They rattle as they land on the table. Hearing a small sound she turns to see Ambassador Montilyet dipping her quill in ink, her nose wrinkling delicately. "I've brought a few things for Minaeve's research."

"Very good. I'm sure she will be able to…" she blinks, clearing her throat.

Evelyn looks from the guts to Josephine, back to the bony fingers and again to the ambassador. "Oh. Is this a problem?" Minaeve isn't here. She grasps the squirmy, slippery guts and stuffs them back into the rucksack, leaving a trail of brown liquid on the table.

"No problem at all," though she can hardly speak the words in her effort to hold her breath. "Oh, my. It is certainly… pungent, isn't it?"

Evelyn looks at Josephine. Her eyes are watering. Evelyn smiles, cinching the bag tightly. "I suppose I've gotten used to it." She lifts an arm, sniffing but doesn't detect anything out of the ordinary. Does she smell like demon guts? What if she smells like demon guts? This cannot possibly be something she's accustomed to. "I apologize. I could leave them here…" She wonders if Josephine's Wicked Grace face is always so poor. The suggestion leaves the ambassador looking horrified. "Or not… I suggest the table be moved elsewhere. You greet all sorts of dignitaries here."

Josephine gets to her feet. "No, that is not necessary. We are so cramped for room, everyone must share. If the worst the nobles have to endure is a little smell then they are fortunate. You are the one doing all the hard work. Please forgive me if I have seemed ungrateful."

"Not ungrateful. Just… squeamish." She lifts the bag. "Please tell Minaeve I'll bring this by later. If it's more convenient I'll come when you're not around. I'd hate to offend your delicate nose." The ambassador's nose, however, is lovely as far as noses go, long and refined. Her profile would do well as a bust.

"It will take a lot more than a satchel of demon guts to offend me  _or_  my nose. I grew up in Antiva and Orlais." Evelyn supposes that means something. Josephine bows her head momentarily. "And I will not hear of you inconveniencing yourself for my sake." She confidently takes the 'research', wincing as her fingers touch the sticky bag. "Oh. That is warm and…" Josephine pales, words lodging in her throat, "quite disgusting."

Evelyn laughs. That was almost endearing. "I'll take that. I couldn't possibly have you sully your noble hands." She takes the bag back, their fingers brushing. She may be used to hacking things in battle but Josephine is more delicate. "I'll return when Minaeve is here." She leaves promptly returning minutes later with a bucket and a washcloth. She imagines Josephine is likely losing her mind at having touched such filth. "The water is warm," she sets it down in front of Josephine, "if you want to wash up. I don't suppose you'll require assistance?"

Josephine moves to the water graciously. "I am perfectly capable. But thank you, Lady Trevelyan," she meets her eyes, her smile sincere and unassuming, "you are most kind."

*

The lantern sways in the darkness, casting shifting shadows in the chantry cellar. The door was open, a peculiar thing in itself as there is nothing, insofar as she knows, that is stored beneath.

Josephine carries the candle in the saucer, moving cautiously into the black. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

She feels needlessly nervous and a trill of excitement. Haven has been so dull, despite the upheaval the world is currently in. Cold, uncomfortable, with none of her luxuries at hand. She did not even think of them as luxuries, they were simply how one lived. She misses long, bubble baths in four clawed bath tubs, a glass of wine or champagne on hand as she read one of Varric's novels.

She was busy in Antiva and Orlais to be sure, but when she had a moment to breathe she was able to enjoy herself. Haven is forcing her into work, lest she become overwhelmed by the frigid temperatures and lack of civilization.

There's a metal clanging and Josephine's heart stops. Perhaps she should turn back. There's swearing and a larger shadow before Josephine creeps closer. Oh, for the love of… "Lady Trevelyan?"

Evelyn turns, the the hilt of her sword smacking the lantern above her and knocking it out entirely. Glass spills, clinking softly as it hits the ground. Josephine rushes forward. "My goodness, are you all right?" In the candlelight, Evelyn's face is warm, sunkissed. Evelyn carefully runs her fingers through her hair. "I apologize, it was not my intention to startle you." Why is she down here?

"I think there's glass in my hair."

Wonderful. Now she's indirectly caused harm to the Herald of Andraste. She should attend to her but her curiosity bubbles to the surface. "I did not expect  _you_  to be down here. I thought… perhaps a burglar."

"Nicking all the chantry sister's belongings? I seem to be better at hitting things than breaking and entering."

"You have the breaking part down at least."

"Were you planning on smiting me with that candle?" She touches the pool of wax that's collected, hissing softly. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she not expect it to burn?

"You scared me half to death. Is this what you do in the middle of the night?"

"It's hard to sleep."

Ah, yes. Admittedly, she has not given much thought to the burden the Herald must withstand day to day. The fate of the world seems to ride on her shoulders and yet, she has not heard her complain. "Is there any way I might be of assistance?" Perhaps she needs to talk. That, Josephine can do.

"I don't know. It's hard to talk about." Josephine nods with understanding. "Everything's falling apart but that bloody mattress—" Mattress? "It's just… so lumpy and hard and thin. Can the Herald say 'bloody'?" She winces. "Don't tell Cassandra."

"You want a better mattress?" Get in line. Ah, how she spends sleepless nights dreaming of her old downy mattress and pillows.

"Of course. How's yours?"

"Oh. Ah. Terrible, I'm afraid. I wake up aching." They walk towards the exit, Josephine smiling. "And here I have been lamenting the loss of mine. It was imported from Orlais. You know, perhaps, of the attention they pay to comfort. Still, if the Herald is passing sleepless nights, there is no hope for its poor ambassador."

"A poor Montilyet? I don't believe anyone's ever uttered those words before." She glances back when Josephine stops. "Have I said the wrong thing again?"

Josephine's face heats in the darkness. Is it possible Lady Trevelyan and the rest of the world knows about the financial state of her family? No. That's unlikely. She's taken great care , she's brokered the appropriate deals to make sure they maintain their image. "No, nothing. It's late and I am tired."

"You're sure?"

"Positive." It's a lie but a kind one. It is not the Herald's fault for believing something she has fought hard for to be believed. Her sensitivity is her own issue.

"Then let's daydream of finding ourselves a promising bed. Something we can bear to spend the entire night in."

"Indeed. Large, comfortable, accommodating. With silk sheets, of course. How I miss my silk sheets." She glances at Evelyn who smiles and looks away. Is her face rosy? Why ever for? "If I may ask, what were you hoping to find down here?"

"A little excitement. I've read a few books on lock picking. I was sure I had it, down. I'm piss poor, as it turns out."

"Why not ask Sera or Varric?"

"Why, when I can do it myself?"

"But you can't." They reach the stairwell and Josephine sees light glittering in the Herald's hair. She lifts a hand. "A moment, if you please," and pulls out a thin shard of glass and then another. "And there you are. The others would never forgive me if I let any harm come to you under my watch."

"I'm sure you're quite capable of sweet talking your way into anyone's good graces."

She laughs. "Tell that to Madame Broucheau, who once threatened to peel me like a peach, should I ever  _think_  to negotiate on behalf of her son, Mason, again. Ah, we were young and to her great delight, we did not last. Orlesians take their contracts very seriously. I was not the skilled negotiator I am today, then. Truth be told, I was a little bold for my age and my parents were sure to give me a proper talking to."

"I can't imagine anyone scolding you."

"Then you have not met many Antivan parents," she waves it away with a smile. "Do not think it stops once you are grown. Still, Antivan families are very close—despite our constant bickering." She must proceed delicately. "I wanted to speak to you about  _your_  family." A small line touches Evelyn's brow, despite how neutral the rest of her face is. "If that is all right?" Evelyn purses her lips to speak and then nods her head. Truthfully, she should not continue but an opening has been given and it would be neglectful to not take it. "Well… as you may know, the Inquisition is relying heavily on the support of nobles. I wondered, if perhaps, the Trevelyan family might be interested in lending the Inquisition its support… in … a declaration? If you reached out to them…"

Evelyn crosses her arms gently and leans against the wall. The space is enclosed in darkness, save for the candle Josephine holds. They are breaths apart. "My father and I…" her eyes dart to the side. She's searching for something. A lie, perhaps, or a memory, a story. "All right, yes. I'll speak to him."

"You… do not seem comfortable. I would not wish to press you." They have already asked so much of her.

"No, it's fine," she says airily before issuing a chagrined smile, "you see, my father loves all this political bullshit." All the political bullshit. "It'll be a bragging point, to think that the Inquisition would want anything from him."

"I see." But she doesn't and she can't help but think that she's transgressed somehow.


	2. Ostwick

Evelyn has never been in love. Some would question she knows how. Cassandra Pentaghast makes her dwell on the word, dwell on its meaning. Cassandra is fierce, righteous, idealistic, commanding, a protector of the weak, a bloody princess and if that wasn't perfect enough, she's one of the most beautiful women Evelyn has ever set eyes on. Cassandra is a woman who isn't afraid to take charge and accomplish whatever she sets her sights on. She does not fret over fashion and dresses. She is as fearsome a warrior as Evelyn has ever encountered and like Evelyn, she has no interest in her family or returning home. Cassandra humors Evelyn when she flirts, even if she does not reciprocate. Maybe she's shy. _Or maybe she's not attracted to women._  That would be tragic.

"What are you smiling about?" Cassandra asks. They have been traveling the Storm Coast for hours now, cold and wet. The wind throws sheets of rain at them.

"We're whittling down the raider presence and I couldn't ask for a finer partner to do it with."

Cassandra's mouth ticks upward, despite how she fights the smile. "There are worse ways to spend time. I know things were tense for us in the beginning. I'm glad we've moved forward. I misjudged you. Every time I think I have bested this temper of mine, it rears its ugly head."

She misjudged her about killing the Divine, at least. Evelyn knows that she didn't kill the Divine. She'd remember something like that. She hopes she'd remember a thing like that. "I like that you're passionate." Cassandra laughs in that way she does when she's embarrassed. Everything about the woman makes Evelyn weak-kneed. She isn't a weak-kneed sort.

"Ooh, that's a big one," Sera shouts, knocking Evelyn out of her reverie, spotting the bear before the rest of the group. It is big. It's at least twice as tall as she is. The bear sees them and charges. Cassandra rushes to it. "Punch it!" Sera yells, happily priming an arrow.

Evelyn pulls the greatsword from her back. Dinner. Maybe they could have dinner. They can talk about Andraste and restoring order, the Inquisition and the Circles. All those things she's meant to care about. They have so much in common. Theoretically. They could have more. All the lumpy beds, the horrible nights in tents, the bitter cold of Haven, the ungrateful people of Thedas, all of that is worth bearing for her.

Maybe they'll share a tent tonight. Better Cassandra than Blackwall. Better anyone than Sera who thrashes and kicks. How did Cassandra get that scar on her face? Questions buzz in her head. It's impossible to stop thinking about her.

* * *

 

Josephine knocks on the cabin door as the wind howls. The chill of night is settling in. Leliana, the keeper of secrets (and careful revealer when the time comes) has informed her that Lady Trevelyan is at her cabin.

Josephine's fingers are going numb when she knocks again. Another minute passes. She turns to go when the door opens. Seeker Pentaghast stands there and a moment later, Evelyn is at her side. She can't say she expected this. "I hope I am not interrupting."

"What could you possibly be interrupting?" Cassandra takes her arm and steers her inside. Evelyn's face is unreadable. Josephine takes in the room, quaint and neat. The small table for two has a bottle of wine and some plates of food. At the very least she has interrupted dinner. "Do you need the Herald in private?"

"In private? No," the question makes little sense. "I came to speak to her about her family." She looks at Evelyn. "I do not know what you said to your father, my Lady, but it was a tremendous success. He has written a letter of support and has plans to throw a gala in your honor. He spoke quite fondly of you."

"I didn't know he did that."

Mh. It seems a fair assumption that Lady Trevelyan and her family are not on good terms, as she suspected. Why did Evelyn not laugh away her request as Cassandra did? "He intends to collect coin on behalf of the Inquisition and send it to us."

"I see."

I see, Evelyn says. But what does she think? Difficult woman. "And lastly…" Josephine continues, "your great-aunt Lucille has written word requesting your presence at said gala."

Cassandra makes a sound of discontent. Evelyn smiles. Josephine had forgotten the woman is capable. The expression seemed impossible moments ago. "Perfectly put, Cassandra." Evelyn sounds so gracious when she speaks of Seeker Pentaghast.

"Do not do it," Cassandra advises, "if your family is anything like mine—"

"Ah, wait," Josephine knows she must intervene before Cassandra completely dissuades Evelyn from the matter. "If our Herald is open to the suggestion…" Evelyn arches a pale eyebrow in question, "then let us not be hasty and flat out refuse. After all… it's nothing you haven't done before and perhaps a family reunion…"

"There are holes in the sky," Evelyn says.

"A fair point, and not one that anybody has forgotten— but if your presence might bolster the nobles'—"

"Coin purses," Cassandra says.

_Maker_ , she is direct. " _Charitable_  spirit," Josephine corrects, "that will also do the Inquisition, and in turn, the people of Thedas, good. It is your decision but I must let your family know either way."

"I'll write dear father a letter."

Hrm. Josephine gauges her face and once more finds it frustratingly unreadable. "That is… quite good … however, I will have to read it before you send it out. You understand." Evelyn crosses her arms and Josephine knows that while Evelyn may understand, she certainly does not care for the news. "If it is agreeable, I can help you write it."

"Josephine has a talent for such things," Cassandra says, "but it is a lengthy process and she is tenacious. Our meal is all but concluded," she begins to pick up the dishes on the table and collect the wine glasses. Evelyn watches her move around the room, her brow furrowed. "I will return these to the kitchen."

"You don't have to go," Evelyn protests.

"I must. This is official Inquisition business and it takes precedence. I enjoyed our time together," she nods and with dishes and wine in hand she exits the cabin, shutting the door behind her.

Evelyn sits at the table, tapping her finger. Josephine sits beside her. Minutes pass with only the wind snaking its way into the cabin for music, the crackling fireplace. "I apologize if I have… ruffled feathers."

Evelyn takes a breath. "Let's just get on with it."

Josephine sets down the clipboard and straightens her papers. "I have upset you in some way. I do not mean to overstep. As ambassador it is my duty to cull noble interest and generate coin. But again, the final decision is yours." A beat. "Matters with your family seem strained." She still isn't sure why she agreed to write them. What did she say to convince them if everything is so difficult, if Evelyn truly did not wish their involvement? "I must admit some surprise that you would write your father if you're not on agreeable terms."

"My family and extended family are very religious. They know just about everyone in the Chantry. I have cousins who are clergy. I'm certain they haven't been able to stop patting themselves on the back since finding out  _I'm_ the Herald of Andraste. It's all about the getting, you know."

She does. "What is your opinion?"

"About?"

"Being the Herald of Andraste." Evelyn smiles, shrugs. She has a way about her, careless and free, reserved and cautious. It pulls and tricks you into thinking you are the one chasing. It is impossible, it would appear, to get a straight answer out of her. "If I may have your answer, regarding the soiree, we might begin writing this letter."

Evelyn massages her forehead gently. "I hate those parties."

"Truly? I remember spending many summers at your great-aunt Lucille's. They were all the rage and it was a fine opportunity to meet other nobles and make connections…" Josephine stops. The Inquisitor has leaned an elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand, studying her. Is she bored? Is she contemptuous? "Come to think of it, I never saw you there. Why is that?"

"I made enough scenes that eventually I stopped being invited altogether."

"Until now."

"I must be back in their good graces. Wonder of wonders. The Trevelyans love three things: hoarding coin, giving it all away to the chantry and bragging. This will be a  _coup._  I'll go to their stupid party. The Herald of Andraste will collect a great deal of coin for the Inquisition."

"That is good news," Josephine says doubtfully. It is evident that Evelyn is uncomfortable and resentful about attending the party but it is too good of an opportunity to pass up. Josephine doesn't know why she's ill at ease. She should be accustomed to making nobles uncomfortable. That is the point. To make them comfortable or uncomfortable enough that they'll do what she wants. "I shall speak to the advisors. If they agree, I will accompany you." If Evelyn really is as prone to making scenes as she claims, it would be best to keep an eye on her and do damage control.

"Coming for the wine, the connections, or me?"

Josephine relaxes, some of the tension of before melting. "Maybe all of the above." Evelyn's smile becomes a smirk and Josephine isn't sure why.

* * *

 

Her family has gone all out. The home is so polished and lavish, you'd never think there was a war going on. Not one that's touched this part of Ostwick.

Josephine is all smiles. Evelyn isn't sure if it's all part of the act or if she's happy to be returned to some semblance of civilization. They said little to one another on the carriage ride to Ostwick, Josephine spending the majority of the time writing letters or moving the oversized suitcase she brought for the occasion while Evelyn read Varric's  _Tale of the Champion_.

The Trevelyan home is large, white stone and tall, located on the coast, despite Evelyn's previous protests about being near ocean water. Josephine's noticed as well but has tactfully not brought it up. The inside of the home has spilling red carpets, dark furniture, countless paintings of past Trevelyans and notable chantry figures. She sees the painting of her mother, eyes as silver as any moon, holding a sword buried in the ground, a red cloak on her shoulders, the embodiment of nobility.

"You have her eyes," Josephine says, standing beside her and admiring the painting.

Her eyes and nothing more. "I never knew her, but you likely already knew that."

Cassandra has asked her questions, has admitted that Leliana has collected a 'frightening' amount of information about her. How much, she wonders? Leliana keeps her distance. Evelyn wonders if she's the coldest thing in Haven, if her work demands ice.

"I did not, in fact, know that." Josephine looks at the painting for some time longer.

"She died in childbirth. From what my great Aunt-Lucille told me, Father loved her very much." A cold washes over her. It's something she's come to peace with, as she has that her father wanted someone better for a daughter, someone more like her mother, who by all accounts was delicate, soft spoken, graceful. "It's all so maudlin. Don't worry, I don't cry myself to sleep or anything." When she was a child and she didn't understand her father's resentment but no longer.

"I am sorry. Do you miss her?"

"I never knew her."

"You can miss something you've never had."

Evelyn looks at her. "How does one do that?"

There are footsteps at the top of the stairs. Her father stands there, former soot hair now gone white, her brother Maxwell, tall, a younger reflection of their father. Their eyes are piercing blue.

"There she is," Maxwell declares, "The Herald of Andraste!" He goes over and slaps her shoulder. "The Maker must truly have a sense of humor." He focuses his attention on Josephine. "My dear Lady Montilyet. It has been far too long and if I may say, you're more ravishing than ever."

Josephine smiles, despite being clearly flustered. He's always had a talent for making women forget themselves. "Lord Trevelyan," her cheeks redden as he presses a kiss to her hand, "you are too kind."

"I hope my little sister has been behaving herself."

"Evelyn, behave herself?" Her father says. He walks over and looks her over with the same analytical gaze she remembers. "Now that all of Thedas is looking to you, you might consider acting in a way that behooves someone of your station." Evelyn stares back at him. "Lucille has always liked to meddle." Evelyn smiles dimly. He seems to remember Josephine is there and takes Evelyn in his arms, a bracing embrace that takes all the air from her.

* * *

 

"This is our largest guest room," Evelyn opens the door to the bedroom. Josephine's heart does a flip. The room is incredibly large, many times the size of the largest cabins back at Haven. The canopied bed is massive, pillows and cushions line it, along with bed linens that are fine and soft. Josephine goes over to the bed and touches it experimentally.  _Silk._ "Will this do for our esteemed guest Lady Montilyet?"

Josephine summons all her willpower to not throw herself on the bed and hug the pillows to her. This is not the most luxurious she has experienced but after Haven, it's paradise. She looks back to Evelyn who lingers by the door and sets down Josephine's oversized suitcase. Lady Trevelyan was quiet on the ride to Ostwick. Josephine didn't understand then but does now. The tension at the family reunion was palpable. "This is wonderful. I have been dreaming of this since arriving in Haven." She sits on the bed and sighs dreamily. "It's so soft."

"I'm happy you approve." Evelyn leans against the doorway, watching her. "The home is yours as long as you're here, so feel free to raid the kitchen."

"You do not understand how dangerous of a proposition that is." That gets a smile out of her. "I couldn't possibly."

Evelyn pushes away from the door and takes a seat on the bed beside her. Josephine grows nervous without reason. "Then I'll do the raiding for you. It will be the least offensive of my adventures."

"Is that so? You make it sound like you're a troublemaker."

"That isn't obvious?"

Not at Haven. Here, she wonders. Maxwell spoke of Evelyn being the Herald as if it were a jest, and not even Haven is as chilly as the reunion between father and daughter. "You appear to be well behaved." At least around Haven, especially around Cassandra. She has only ever heard that Evelyn has been agreeable to their cause, agreeing to seal the breach in the sky with nothing asked in return.

Evelyn laughs. "How could I ever misbehave around you? The scandal! I'd hate to offend Lady Montilyet's delicate sensibilities."

"You're teasing me." As if she were so sensitive. She spent time in Orlais, she involved herself in the Game. She is not so innocent but apparently, being an ambassador to the Inquisition casts her in a certain light. Just because she prefers to use words and not action. "I am not so delicate as you think."

"I'll believe that when I see it," she stands. "By the way, I'm sure Maxwell will be asking you for a dance at tomorrow night's soirée."

"Should I watch out for my feet?"

"Watch out for your heart. My brother is as dashing as they come." Josephine has heard similar stories. "Don't worry. I'll protect you from the women throwing themselves at him, eager to claw your eyes out."

Josephine smiles, getting to her feet. "And how will you find the time? You forget that this soirée is being held in your honor."

"This soirée is being held in theirs. That I happen to be here, that I happen to be the Herald is convenient and unfortunate in one. If only it'd been Maxwell." Her jaw is tight. "I'm sure that's what Father is thinking."

Is it? "You do not give yourself proper credit, Lady Trevelyan. The deeds you have performed on behalf of the Inquisition and Thedas itself… Stories of your heroism are spreading like wildfire."

"And fanned by our advisors."

Josephine cannot and will not argue it. It is what must be done. How else will they combat all the slander out there? "Like it or not, you are what we need."

"Who's 'we'?"

"The Inquisition. Thedas." A moment. "I did not think you so unhappy in your role as Herald of Andraste. Are you not Andrastian?"

"You're Andrastian the moment you're born into the Trevelyan family, whether you like it or not." She straightens her fingers and works to clear the vexation in her face. "You have no idea—" she stops. "I apologize. It was not my intention to snap at you."

"It's all right. I have endured far worse for far less. I'm only happy you're no longer looking at me as if I were a leper." And another wry smile is pulled from her. An accomplishment. "The situation is not ideal. If I may provide any assistance I am at your service, Lady Trevelyan."

"That's kind of you. For the time being enjoy your return to 'civilization'. We have stables if you'd like to ride horses and a library. If you have need of anything else, don't hesitate to ask."

How strange. Evelyn has been aloof at Haven and here, despite how miserable she is, she is being most courteous. Evelyn nods and makes her exit. Josephine is sad to see her go. She grabs her suitcase and begins to unpack her belongings.

There is a large desk in the corner of the room and a bottle of chilled wine. Lady Trevelyan's doing, she wonders? She picks up the bottle. There's a small note. _I'll be drinking a dozen or so of these to get through the party. I thought it only kind to spare one._ Hrmph. It would not do to have the Herald so intoxicated. It is a jest, she's sure. She looks at the label. Ah! Antivan! 9:36 Dragon!

_Blessed be the Herald of Andraste._  She sits in the plush seat, getting comfortable. She has received a guest list from Bann Trevelyan. Now she must get to work.

* * *

 

Evelyn spends the time before the party reading, trying to forget where she is, who she is, and what's to come. When she can delay no longer or ignore the sound of the chatter, the music filling the home, she exits the room. The home is brightly lit. "There she is!" someone says, "The Herald!"

Maker's breath. Evelyn smiles and nods and remembers a time she loved this kind of thing. Perhaps she was on better terms with her father, then. That was before the debacle with Maria Elena, Maxwell's fiancee, before she arrived at a soiree, bleeding and muddy, before she ran away, again and again and undid all her father's work.

She smiles and bears it, greeting distant relatives, speaking of her happiness to be back at her family home, telling the story of how she fell from the sky with Andraste herself leading her out. That isn't what happened but she can't remember what happened and it is a story the Inquisition is happy to peddle. She wishes Cassandra were here. Cassandra would understand her misery, could suffer through it with her. Still, Evelyn did not wish to subject her to this nonsense. Nor did she want Cassandra to see her interact with her father. She'd hate for the Seeker to think less of her.

Evelyn moves through the home, doing her Heraldic duty. She reaches the top of the stairs and the music swells to a crescendo, a chantry song worthy of any deity. The crowd below turns to look at her. Josephine stands beside her brother on the dancefloor, her hair loosed, wearing a modest and yet elegant white dress. She's stunning. Their eyes lock and Josephine nods.

Sound returns the next moment. Everyone claps. Everyone who previously considered her an embarrassment to the Trevelyans. She descends the steps to meet her father, who secures an arm around her shoulder. "We always knew Evelyn was destined for great things," he tells the crowd. He lies with conviction. "And we are humbled that she has taken time away from the Inquisition to grace us with her presence."

There's a smattering of applause. Everyone's looking at her. People she remembers, some she abhors, others she's pressed her naked flesh to. Her face goes hot. She has never seen so many people gathered here. Some idiot begins chanting 'speech' and soon the other nobles join. Her father is uneasy and Maxwell smirks at her, the brother who knows her too well, who knows how terrible she is at playing along with these sorts of games.

"Thank you," she says stiltedly. Everyone quiets to listen to her speak. Josephine merely looks on, a reassuring smile on her lips. What is she meant to say? Is she to give an impassioned speech, asking them to give coin to the Inquisition? That's best left to Josephine. Or should she say she owes all of this to her family? What do they want from her? To lie? Should she stand here and lie to all of them? Should she tell them Andraste and the Maker saved her? Can she do it with a straight face? "I…"

"Lady Trevelyan remains ever humble," Josephine steps beside her, fingers glancing imperceptibly along Evelyn's wrist. "These are troubled time for all of Thedas. There is war between mages and templars and who can forget the breach that tears at the sky?" There's murmurs in the crowd. "Here stands Lady Trevelyan, the lone survivor of the Conclave, guided out of the darkness by Andraste herself. However, she is not content with merely surviving. The Inquisition may be in its infancy and our numbers low but it has not stopped our Lady Trevelyan from traveling the land at great personal peril and aiding those in need, providing food for the hungry, blankets for those who would have otherwise died of cold. Not only that, she alone has the power to seal the rifts in the sky. She has cleansed areas rife with demons, ensuring that no innocent is endangered by whatever malevolent force has torn the skies asunder. And she has done so without complaint, without asking for anything in return. Bann Trevelyan, you should be proud. The Inquisition, the Left and Right Hand of the Divine are so very grateful to all the hard work your daughter has accomplished, it is no doubt tribute to her fine upbringing." Her father is pleased at the words. Evelyn's jaw clenches. "Without her, there would be no Inquisition and the land would be imperiled. We are a small and meager operation and I cannot say how much longer we can last without the support of the esteemed guests in this room, but what I  _do_  know is that Lady Trevelyan will continue to face that danger for us. She may ask for nothing but  _I_  ask you, if you truly believe in the Maker, if you want to see order and peace restored to our lands, please give in any way you can. We are both honored to be your esteemed guests tonight. Thank you." Evelyn is tense as the nobles clap loudly, as their voices roar. Josephine brings her lips to her ear. "Smile."

Evelyn smiles, unsure of whether she's impressed or disgusted.

* * *

 

Josephine is not sure when Evelyn disappears. One moment, the Herald is at the foot of the stairs, talking to a Fereldan noblewoman, the next she is gone.

The evening has been a grand success for the Inquisition. Already she has favors to call in, secrets to hand Leliana, promises of coin, merchants willing to join their cause. Lady Trevelyan has never struck Josephine as a woman short on words and still she fumbled before the crowd, saying little to Josephine once she finished her speech.

She stood silently when Bann Trevelyan unveiled a new painting of the Herald of Andraste, Evelyn's frame to be sure, slighter, softer, in a dress much like her mother wore in the painting, a woman wrapped in light behind her, guiding Evelyn out of the chaos. Evelyn's eyes were flat as she clapped along with the crowd. It occurs to Josephine that Evelyn is sure to be a terrible player of the Game. It is perhaps a mark of authenticity.

"So," Maxwell asks, "what do you make of my little sister?"

A question everyone keeps asking. They are siblings but if she did not know better she would think it only in name. Evelyn and her brother look little alike. Although they are both… quite pleasing to the eye. Evelyn's looks are… otherwordly. Josephine has never met another that resembles her . Maxwell is darker, his hands are soft and true to Evelyn's words, women have been eyeing her jealously all evening. "I thought my previous words more than sufficient an opinion."

"You're not involved, then?"

"What?" She steps on his foot, grimaces, apologizes, Maker, she hopes nobody has seen. A literal misstep. Do Lady Trevelyan's tastes run towards women? Josephine cannot say she had considered it.  _Nor must you._  "No. The Herald and I are associates in the Inquisition, nothing more."

"Associates? I can't remember the last time I spoke so passionately of an associate."

"You would, if you had seen her in action." Maxwell smiles and she feels the palm of his hand pressed against the small of her back. How long since someone has held her close? "Lady Trevelyan has only ever exhibited the highest degree of propriety."

He smiles. "Are you sure you're talking about my sister?" She must make some sort of expression. He laughs, though not unkindly. "Don't let Evelyn fool you. She has a sweet face, doesn't she? Looks innocent enough but she can charm snakes when she puts her mind to it. Honestly, she has more in common with Maferath than Andraste."

Whatever does that mean? She nearly yanks away from him. "That is most unkind," she says. The words slip from her before she can take them back. He blinks. The song comes to an end and Maxwell releases her. Both are contrite. She is unsettled but tells herself siblings are prone to fighting, arguing and saying the most terrible things—terrible things that are not meant. This must be more of the same. Soon he is flanked by three women. Josephine makes sure to meet them all, get their names and be gracious. Gratitude fills their eyes when she steps away from Maxwell. She has made it a point to make everyone's acquaintance, to uncover, through subtle means, the most pertinent information, to flatter them.

The process can be enjoyable and at other times tiring. She spends the last hour reminiscing with the Herald's great-aunt-Lucille about previous parties. She thanks Lucille for the ingeniused suggestion to bring Evelyn back home. "Though I cannot say I know where she is just now," Josephine looks around the room, excusing herself.

Evelyn's name is on everyone's lips and still she has gone missing from her own party. Bann Trevelyan has a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, nodding approvingly at the painting he had commissioned. Josephine takes the steps to the second floor. There are fewer nobles up here. They smile, reiterating promises to send coin to the Inquisition. She has already drafted up the necessary contracts, it will be a matter of having them signed.

And still there are those who would have a word with the Herald before making any commitments. Likely they need a reason to brag before handing over any coin and the favor of the Herald will do handsomely. Josephine moves past her guest room. If she recalls, Lady Trevelyan is only a few doors down and—ah yes, this should be it. The woman is a recluse and spent the better part of yesterday and today buried in a book. She wouldn't have taken the Herald for a bookworm but Cassandra is much the same. Yet another thing the two share in common.

Josephine raises her hand to knock and stops. There is giggling and as Lady Trevelyan does not giggle, Josephine can only assume it is the laughter of another woman.

Evelyn is weary.  _I just want to be alone._

_What's the matter? Is it that pretty ambassador of yours? I remember when you couldn't wait to start pawing at me. Lady Montilyet spoke so graciously of you, that I wonder if she knows you at all._

_Leave her out of this._

_Have you got them all fooled, as you once had **us** fooled? I cannot believe  **you**  have changed. You're screwing her._

Josephine's face flushes.  _I assure you I'm not. She's a fucking prissy politician and as laced up as they come._ Her face burns further. She should leave but she is rooted in place.

This laughter is throaty, pleased, the laugh of a victory won.  _I wondered if being the Herald of Andraste had changed you, but Herald or not, you're still flesh and blood._  There's silence followed by a soft sigh.  _I can't believe we're together like this. You swore you'd never return to Ostwick._

_It's complicated. I'm still me. I'm no different than the woman you knew._

_You're mad if you think that. Don't pout. Here._  Another stretch of silence and then shaky breath.  _Mh. You never could stay angry at me, Herald of Andraste._

_Stop calling me that._

_Let me enjoy it. Let me enjoy you._  The rustling of clothing.  _Let me do this. An homage to the parties that came before. Consider it my thanks for everything you've done for Thedas._

Josephine pulls back at last, finally able to move her legs. She must return to her room. She must work.

* * *

 

Evelyn shifts on her side, snuggling closer to the pillow. It is the closest thing to a good night's rest as she's had since going to the Conclave. Warm sunlight spills onto her back and she drifts to sleep again, exhausted from being the Herald of Andraste, from the trip to Ostwick, from the infernal party and her late night exertions. There's a delicate knock on the door. She ignores it until it comes again.

What is it. She mumbles the words, closing her eyes again until she hears the distinctive sound of the door opening. She turns. She's alone in the bed. Maxwell stands at the door, Josephine at his side, her hair tied up, no-nonsense once more. Maxwell wears his amusement well. Josephine smiles but there is the smallest of lines along her eyebrow. Evelyn snatches the sheets and tugs them closer to her. "What are you doing?" she isn't sure who she demands answers from.

"Lady Montilyet was much too kind to wake you. I have no such reservations. Father wants us to meet him for brunch. A very late brunch, sister." He smirks and turns, leaving Josephine at the entrance.

Evelyn takes a breath. Awake only seconds and the day is rapidly beginning its downward spiral. She rubs her eyes and runs a hand through her tousled her. "I apologize if I've kept you waiting," she tells Josephine as she spots a solitary silk stocking on the floor. Josephine's eyes fall on it at the same time. "Um." Her face warms. "Were you able to sleep?"

"Quite well, thank you." What color are her eyes? They look at her, deeper, somehow. Evelyn clutches the sheet more tightly. "But perhaps any and all conversations are better had when both parties are fully dressed," the most delicate of smiles pulls at her lips. Evelyn isn't sure she agrees. "I shall meet you downstairs, Lady Trevelyan."

Josephine gently closes the door behind her and Evelyn discards the sheet, rising to her feet, feeling no shame in her nakedness, stretching her arms far above her head. Her little adventure last night has left her with small scratches and bruises, far too telling on her skin. She bathes in perfumed water, intending to hurry but soon taking advantage of the roomy bathtub and the water that holds every piece of her. Finally she exits and dresses, putting on the finery her father will tolerate, a dress jacket, a silken belt, breeches, and boots, polished and soft.

She meets them in the dining room. Servants line the table attentively. She sees Lucia trying to make eye contact with her but Evelyn refuses. Another small matter Josephine notices.

"So you finally deign to join us!" Maxwell grins and lifts a glass. "I've got your champagne ready. We all know how you like to start your day." Her father's eyes frost over her. Evelyn stops abruptly when she sees the large painting, that abomination that is meant to be some representation of her, some wish gone unfulfilled. She takes a seat beside Josephine at the overlarge table.

"You caused me a great deal of embarrassment last night," her father says while the servants move around the table, setting dishes. Evelyn smooths a finger over her eyebrow, forcing herself not to react. "Where in blazes did you go?"

"To bed."

"With who?" Maxwell asks.

She shoots a look at him and he ducks his head, smiling still, taking a drink of champagne. "I'm not sure. Maybe another one of your girlfriends." That darkens his eyes. Their father blanches. There's a fire at the center of her chest and she smiles, despite how painfully her fingers have wrapped around the fork before her.

"You're as disgraceful as the day you were born," Bann Trevelyan's eyes burrow into her. Evelyn is acutely aware of Josephine beside her, tense, her back as upright as a rod.

"Please," Josephine says, "I know it is not my place but let us be civil. There is no need for heated words. Lady Trevelyan was with me, late into the night, working on contracts."

Why would she lie for her? To preserve some shred of respect? To present her in a better light to her family? Evelyn doesn't know. Maxwell scoffs, crossing his arms. "Contracts! To be sure."

Evelyn can no longer see clearly. Everything sways. Truthfully she wishes Josephine hadn't said anything. Evelyn needs no one to defend her and all Josephine's doing is casting herself in a poor light. "Question me if you must but leave Lady Montilyet out of it."

"You are no Herald of Andraste," her father pours himself a glass of champagne. "The Maker would never think to touch you with His light. You may have Thedas fooled but not me. Whatever has caused you to seal rifts in the sky—that came not from the Maker. For all we know it's a bit of dark magic, some nefarious influence, drawn to you, for reasons that are obvious to anyone who has ever met you."

Evelyn smiles thinly, a cold sweat glazing her skin.

Josephine rises. "Thank you for welcoming us into your home but we are finished here." She looks around the table. "Lady Trevelyan has urgent matters to attend to. We must also report to the Left and Right Hand of the Divine, as well as Chancellor Roderick, the details of this visit, and the nature of the hospitality given to the Herald of Andraste by the Trevelyan family," she bows her head curtly and turns, leaving. Maxwell stabs at his food while her father goes red in the face. Evelyn wakes as if from a daze and follows, finding Josephine at the stairs. "I will have my belongings ready in no time," Josephine informs her as they take the steps up. Evelyn releases a breath. "I am sorry. I will not ask you to do such a thing again."

They separate to their respective bedrooms. Evelyn stands still, letting the silence and expansive weight rush to her, crushing. Maybe they're right. She looks into the vanity mirror and searches for her mother's face, some piece of her that's worthy of the Trevelyan name.

Josephine is at the door soon enough, suitcase in hand. "I have all the necessary contracts. These are promises of aid to the Inquisition. You did a worthy thing here, if your aim was to help our cause." She reaches out and takes her hand. Evelyn's is freezing and Josephine's is warm. It's only a moment later that she realizes that Josephine isn't offering comfort—she's taking the fork Evelyn hadn't realized she was holding. "We will walk out of here with our heads held high." She sets the fork down on the vanity table.

"Ambassador—"

"Come now. We mustn't delay."

* * *

 

The rain is endless.

The trip to Ostwick was more difficult than Josephine anticipated. The Trevelyans are no players of the game. They lack any subtlety and what they have promised to give the Inquisition is paltry. Still, much was gleaned from the party and Josephine knows that she and Leliana can take it to gain a more suitable contribution. Evelyn need not know. In fact, if she can help it, Josephine will make sure they do not trouble her again.

The horse walks stiffly through the muddy ground and Josephine thinks back sadly to their dear carriage horse, having slipped on some loose stones and breaking a leg. Evelyn did the terrible duty of putting it out of its misery and has been silent since.  _Or perhaps she is still deliberating over the matters at the Trevelyan home_. Yes, another possibility. Despite the armed guard, there were not enough horses for travel. She and Lady Trevelyan share one, though Evelyn insisted that Josephine take the rain cloak. Josephine did, grateful.

She has not ridden a horse in a very long while, nor has she with a partner. Her arms are wrapped around Evelyn's waist, her face wet with the rain that runs down Evelyn's armor. Josephine cannot see Evelyn's face, hasn't in hours, and yet even her back seems dejected. Josephine holds her closer without meaning to and notices Evelyn turn her head as if to look at her. The angle makes it impossible for Evelyn but not her. Josephine looks at her profile, slick with rain, smooth pale skin, rosy lips. Evelyn looks away. "I'm sorry you were subjected to that." Evelyn says. It's hard to hear her over the rain, over the soft trot of the horse but Josephine makes the words out. "I wanted to spare Cassandra but not even you deserve that."

"Not even I?"

"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

_She's a prissy fucking politician and as laced up as they come._  "Perhaps it came out just as you intended." Josephine wonders what Leliana knows about Evelyn for she finds herself growing more curious. It would not be proper to ask, even if she knows Leliana would provide all answers.

Lady Trevelyan has no time to response. There is a crackle, what sounds like the tearing of fabric, a hum and then the rushing of air. The land around them glows emerald. The horse whinnies and if not for her desperate hold, Josephine knows she would have fallen. "Is it a rift?" she asks desperately.

Evelyn ignores her, attempting to soothe the pacing horse. It rears on its hind legs, bucking several times until Evelyn disengages from Josephine and slides off. Josephine throws herself at the reins, just grabbing them as Evelyn attempts to do the same. The horse will not calm and the Inquisition guards scatter as their horses similarly rebel. "Get down," Evelyn tells Josephine, holding her arm up, "he's going to throw you."

Josephine doesn't so much move as she's tugged down. Free, the horse gallops away. Josephine clings momentarily to Evelyn before she hears a shriek, some sort of rift demon. There's a cabin nearby. "Go hide," Evelyn says. Josephine thins her lips and nods, running through the mud to the cabin. She is no warrior. She will not pretend to try. Evelyn makes sure Josephine is safely inside before drawing her sword. Josephine watches from the window as Evelyn races towards the light, watches her fight with the Inquisition guards who fall despite her efforts.

Evelyn becomes a shadow, swathed in blazing green light, hand stretched to the sky, until she tugs back and the rift is obliterated, the world returning to the dreary grey of the rain. Josephine exits when she thinks it's safe. Evelyn moves around to the Inquisition soldiers but all who remain are dead. Josephine heaves a heavy breath. Maker have mercy.

Evelyn turns to her and Josephine gasps. Her lips are torn open, going in opposite directions. Blood runs down her face like a river, to her neck, dripping onto her armor. "Get inside the cabin," Josephine tells her, "go at once." But she doesn't, she tries to tell her she's fine. Josephine stoops beside the soldiers, digging through their satchels before finding a few potions, needle and thread. She takes Evelyn's arm forcefully, dragging her into the cabin before pushing Evelyn onto the bed, shoving a potion into her hands. "Drink that," she says, "it will help with the pain."

"I owe aht a otion oz."

"Then drink it at once and do not interrupt me." Maker, there is blood everywhere. She shivers, she tells herself, from the hours of rain and cold. She sterilizes the needle in the candle flame before setting a chair in front of her and sitting. Once the needle is threaded she stares at Evelyn who stares back, silver eyes even, mouth like a ghoul. "I know what I'm doing."

She has spent time with younger brothers who play violently, with Orlesians who party too dangerously and with Leliana—dear Leliana, who has always led her to unexpected adventures. She has taught her well.  _You never know when you might have need of such skills, dear Josie._

She lifts the threaded needle, grimacing as she takes careful hold of Evelyn's separated lips. They're slippery, hot and pulsing. Josephine's hands are soaked instantly in blood. She breathes words in her native tongue until Evelyn takes careful hold of her wrists, holding them wordlessly until Josephine's trembling hands still.

Josephine begins, Evelyn not able to cry out for fear of tearing the wound opens. Josephine pushes the needle through her skin, out again and back in, tying and cinching. Tears bead Evelyn's eyes but she's silent as Josephine stitches her together, crosses on her lips, crosses along her chin. Josephine is dizzy and sick, she hums a lullaby her mother hummed to her when she was a small child, drawing strength from it, pushing through the grisly task until it is done.

She brushes a hand along Evelyn's forehead, sweaty and hot to the touch, leaving a streak of blood. "You must lie down." She sits beside her on the bed, pushing on the armor until Evelyn is on her back. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" She dabs at the blood on her face with a wet cloth. Evelyn shakes her head. "Good. Then rest." Evelyn tries to talk, garbled words that cause her pain, they need to get back. "We will leave in a few hours time. It's a good thing you have such a taciturn nature. I might take your silence as judgment of my fine work." She clasps Evelyn's chin delicately, looking at her face. She has marked her permanently. Josephine hopes it heals well. "You are very brave, Herald of Andraste."

Evelyn takes her hand fiercely and Josephine is surprised at her strength. She moves her criss crossed lips but whatever she was going to say she abandons or perhaps it is impossible for her to speak. Her lips are swollen, stained with blood, bruised. Evelyn releases her and turns away to face the wall, leaving Josephine at a loss for whatever she may have wanted to convey.


	3. The Ambassador

The rain turns to ice and then snow. They shuffle along, shivering before reaching the monstrous arching doors of Haven. The doors open with a groan and Evelyn and Josephine enter on the exhausted horse. Evelyn's face is numb, her mouth filled with the taste of blood. Josephine's grip loosens as Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen go to them.

"Thank the Maker," Cassandra says. "One of the scouts made it back some hours ago."

"A deserter," Cullen shakes his head, his eyes mean. "Said everyone was dead."

"She will be dealt with." Leliana walks to the horse, stretching her arms up. Josephine releases Evelyn, climbing down into the spymaster's arms instead. The redhead looks Josephine over. "Are you all right? You've blood all over you," her steady voice has more breath in it. Leliana looks up at Evelyn but if she sees anything different in Evelyn's face, she doesn't show it.

"I am all right. A rift opened. Lady Trevelyan was able to seal it and fend off the demons but not without cost. We lost our guard and the Herald was injured."

Leliana nods solemnly. "You need to be looked over," she tells Josephine, "and you need a bath. Andraste, look at your clothes. You had me worried sick." She guides Josephine away, Evelyn looking after them. Josephine glances back at her before turning to conversation with Leliana. Cullen follows only after confirming Evelyn is all right.

Cassandra remains, her fingers on the reins of the horse. "I cannot believe you were able to seal a rift on your own. The Maker must have truly sent you." How her family would laugh at that. Cassandra reaches a hand to her and Evelyn takes it, sliding off the horse, stumbling, practically, into Cassandra's arms. The journey has taken its toll and her body is heavy and weary. "I'm glad you made it back safely." She looks guardedly at Evelyn's face.

"Tell me the truth. How ugly am I?"

"I will say this. It is fortunate that you are a noble and the Herald of Andraste." Evelyn stares back at her until Cassandra laughs. "I thought I would use some of that humor you are so fond of. Your face is fine. I am sure you will recover." She wraps an arm around her shoulder. Evelyn leans into her. "Now let's get you warm and some food into your belly. How was the trip home?"

It hurts to speak. "Let's just say having my face sliced open was the least painful part."

"Then I must thank you for not bringing me. Though, perhaps if you had…"

Cassandra's eyes are questioning. Evelyn shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. Now I've got a sexy mysterious scar like you."

She makes a disgusted sound. "You say the most ridiculous things."

* * *

 

"It was a mistake to let you go," Leliana throws another log into the fireplace, using the fire poker to jostle some heat out of the wood. "The Trevelyans may be nobility but who in Orlais will rally behind an Ostwick family?"

Josephine sits by the fire, soaking in the warmth. Leliana has been doting since her return. Truthfully, she's always been a little protective of her. With this latest incident that protectiveness has come out in full force. She had the chantry sisters draw up a hot bath and now she's brought her a thin chicken broth soup, tea. Leliana sits at her feet, keeping close to her and the fireplace. "The trip was not in vain. We have gained allies and influence. Being related to the Herald of Andraste will do much to raise the Trevelyans to higher status." Despite the disdain they hold for Evelyn. "I gained a great many contracts from the fete. I will pass them along to you and Cullen shortly. Trust me—we will benefit."

"You could have been killed. I would have never forgiven myself."

"Please relax, Leliana. As you can see, I am in one piece." Josephine touches her shoulder, but Leliana keeps the serious expression on her face. "I am more worried about the Herald. I hope her injury does not get infected."

Leliana smiles wryly. "If she wasn't so fussy about magic, it wouldn't be a problem."

Josephine had not heard about this so-called fussiness. It makes little sense to her but the Trevelyans are known for their heavy chantry involvement. Perhaps any anti-magic views were passed along to her in her upbringing. Still, it is strange as Lady Trevelyan seems to share little in common with her family. "Does it look bad?" The last Josephine saw, Evelyn's face was so swollen she wasn't sure how things might turn out.

Evelyn had slept only a few hours before waking, feverish, insistent they go.  _You'll either come with me or I'll go on my own._  An idle threat, she suspects, but Josephine doesn't know her well. Perhaps she is reckless enough to leave her behind. Why not leave the rift open? They might have run away and returned better prepared. But what would that have meant for the nearby villagers? In any case, it is closed and the surrounding area now protected. Josephine reluctantly agreed to head back to Haven sooner than anticipated. They rode through terribly cold weather, Evelyn still refusing to take the cloak.

"Does what look bad? Her face? I thought I recognized your handiwork. Your little xs are always longer on the left." Leliana smiles. "How was she? The Herald of Andraste? Was she appropriate?"

Josephine smiles quizzically. "I do not understand your meaning. She sealed the rift on her own. She wouldn't go until she was sure I was safe in the nearby cabin." They look at one another and Josephine remembers a time when she had a better understanding of one of her oldest friends. Sometimes it feels like they're distant strangers, tied together only by some faint recognition of one another's appearances.

"What about Bann Trevelyan and Maxwell? I am told they were in attendance, but the older brothers, Lukas and Julien were not. I'll send scouts to greet them and try to get a sense of what they're saying."

"Forward the reports to me once they've arrived. I'll see to smoothing any wrinkles." If they are anything like the father and brother, there will be a lot of smoothing to do. "As for Bann Trevelyan and Lord Maxwell…" She isn't sure how to describe them. They were polite enough to her but it was an easy thing to see that Evelyn was not wanted. In fact, she spotted Maxwell and Bann Trevelyan arguing heatedly with Lucille halfway through the party. "The Trevelyans do not seem to be a closely knit family."

"That isn't what my agents tell me. Perhaps you mean that they do not get along with our Lady Trevelyan."

"It is as you say." Leliana stares back into the fireplace. "But it hardly matters. This will elevate the Trevelyans, no doubt, but it is the Herald's favor that the nobility will seek. Despite the little benefit you give the Trevelyans, Lucille seems capable as ever of gathering influential figures from Thedas. She will be most helpful in continuing to foster the nobility's generosity for her dear niece. It benefits Lucille to think that she is a trusted agent of the Inquisition. If we foster that illusion, she will keep a steady flow of coin coming our way." Despite the paltry influence she actually wields. All that matters is appearances.

"Good. What of this woman, Brynn, that the Herald spent time with? I believe she is a distant relation to the Cousland family, by marriage. She has a reputation for having a loose tongue—amongst other things."

Brynn. Now she has a name. Her reputation comes to mind. She is closer to Bann Trevelyan's age than Evelyn's. If memory serves she also has a daughter and son, just a few years younger than the Herald. Josephine takes the cup of tea and has a long drink, warmth filling her face, trying not to remember short, shaky breath. "What of her?"

"So you did know. I saw no mention of it in your report."

"Leliana, I have only just returned. I did not know you needed such detailed handwritten reports from me. I prefer that we have conversations." It's also safer to not have everything written down. "How the Herald spends her time…"

"Matters." Leliana looks back at her. "You should know that more than anyone. It is your duty to shape the way the Inquisition is seen. That's why you were brought here." Josephine flushes deeper. Perhaps Leliana is right. A sigh. "It's fine. This Brynn is such a distant relation that any disappearance would not provoke serious scrutiny."

Josephine sits up. That is drastic. "Are you so worried?"

"Lady Trevelyan has enough stacked against her. The Herald of Andraste must be as immaculate as possible." She stands. "Perhaps, only a gentle warning to this Brynn to keep her mouth shut will do." Josephine looks at her warily. Leliana smiles, brushes a kiss to her forehead. "Rest up. I will take care of matters until you're ready to throw yourself back into work again."

She leaves her but despite the fireplace, the tea, the soup, Josephine is cold.

* * *

 

Evelyn looks into the mirror. The inflammation has gone down but her mouth is still starkly red against the rest of her face. Thread runs over her lips and along her chin. She touches it carefully and winces in pain. Vivienne saw fit to roll her eyes before applying a touch of healing magic, enough for it to not get infected but not so much that Evelyn won't be left scarred.

Cassandra has kept her company as they try to figure out how to proceed forward with the Inquisition. The only path appears to be to be allying with the Templars so they might help the Inquisition seal the breach. Cassandra and Cullen advise it despite the Templars behavior in Val Royeaux. It's unthinkable to go to the mages for aid. The world would judge, her family would judge. And yet, Evelyn feels only discomfort when she thinks of going to the order. Why would they help the Inquisition? Why would they help  _her_? Coin was spent but despite that… Some things never disappear.

"You seem troubled," Cassandra says. They have been sitting in a comfortable silence, Cassandra with a book in her lap, the cover carefully concealed. "Would you find it beneficial to talk?"

Likely but she doubts Cassandra would be receptive. Cassandra is an idealist, noble, honorable. She does not seem like the kind to take the easy way out, to shrug away responsibility. Maker, it really is a joke that she: Evelyn Trevelyan, is the Herald of Andraste. Josephine's tone was gentle with her father and brother but every word was edged sharp. It flusters her to think about it. "I… was just thinking how nice it's been spending time with you."

Cassandra narrows her eyes. "And that is why you look troubled?"

"That came out wrong."

"You say that often." She returns to her book.

Evelyn can't figure her out. A Nevarran princess, would be templar who became a seeker and then the Right Hand of the Divine. They have much in common, in the way outlines do and yet they couldn't be more different. Being around Cassandra makes her lightheaded and happy, heavy and guilty. "What will happen to that Inquisition soldier who returned ahead of Lady Montilyet and me?"

Cassandra closes the book. "She is being held. If Leliana has her way, she will not be held much longer. She abandoned her duty and came here, telling us tales that you were gone. It was everything we could do to contain the wild stories being drummed up."

"Were you worried?"

"We all were. Still, I found it difficult to believe that you would perish so easily and it seems that I was right. Leliana and I may not always agree, but the damage that soldier could have done to the Inquisition is immeasurable. The situation must be resolved. We cannot afford to have soldiers behaving in such a craven manner."

"She's young and she was scared. She shouldn't die for it."

"She risked you  _and_  Josephine. She risked the Inquisition. It was her duty to stay and fight. She risked more than you and Josephine. She risked the world."

"She should have stayed and fought? She would have died like everyone else." She closed the rift and Josephine's safe. That's all that matters. "What's the point? Honor?" Honor's overrated.

"If we stand for this behavior without recourse, others will follow."

Evelyn stands. "So what Lady Montilyet and I think doesn't matter?" She hardly thinks Josephine would stand for such a thing. Then again, she knows little about her. Josephine is acquainted with Leliana. Perhaps it's best to appeal to the spymaster herself.

"No one said it doesn't matter."

They go in circles a few more times before separating in frustration. Evelyn picks up her old coat, that poor green thing she was wearing at the Conclave. Maker, why did they send _her_? If Lukas and Julien weren't so bloody busy entertaining themselves in Orlais then everything could have gone differently. Now she has to smile and wave and try to live up to the Trevelyan name.

She exits the cabin. It's chillier than usual, or maybe she hasn't yet been able to warm since the trip back. She isn't walking long when she sees Leliana exit what she believes to be Josephine's cabin. She hasn't spoken to Josephine since their return and it's been days. She's more unsure than ever of how to behave around her. Josephine has seen a side of her family, a side of her, that she never wished to be seen. Not by anyone of the Inquisition. Evelyn never wanted to go to the Conclave, she never wanted to be the Herald. What she wanted, perhaps undeservedly, was a new start. This is too much. Did the Maker make a mistake? Does the Maker make mistakes? She isn't the Herald of Andraste. She can't be the Herald of Andraste.

Cassandra believes in her. Cassandra doesn't seem like the sort to be wrong. Does Josephine believe? Why continue to stand up for her at the party?  _It's all political bullshit, none of which is actually about you._ Maybe. Regardless, Evelyn feels unworthy.

She can still hear Josephine's soft humming, that lullaby that has been stuck in her head since Josephine attended to her in that shabby cabin. Her hands were soft and trembling before they steadied, steely and sure. Her eyes are green. Hazel. No, grey. Hazel. She focused on deciphering their color, the length of her long eyelashes while Josephine worked on her. How does a woman like that know how to mend skin? Maybe she's more than pretty words and ruffles.

She ought to go see her. Thank her. That is the least she deserves. But Evelyn doesn't have the courage. What could she do with her flailing words? Leliana is another matter. Evelyn trots up to her. Leliana does not stop but slows enough for Evelyn to catch up. "I was hoping we could talk."

"All right," Leliana's voice, while always remaining aloof, has an intimate quality to it, and another layer, a cutting playfulness that suggests that she is merely humoring your existence, "talk."

"That soldier who came back ahead of us, with the story that Lady Montilyet and I were dead. Cassandra said you might be… handling her."

Leliana smiles thinly. "Her cowardice risked much. You understand the ramifications of cowardice, yes?"

Evelyn stops. Leliana keeps walking. Eventually, she follows, the air in her lungs so cold it punctures her lungs. "I take it you have issue with me."

"I do. That isn't to say I don't appreciate what you've done for us. You've been surprisingly agreeable, all things considered. When you stepped out of the tragedy that was the Conclave everyone was happy for a survivor. When we saw that you could seal rifts—there, at last, was a beacon of hope. And nobody said it, but it was fortunate that you were human, Andrastian, noble, all things that would bode well for the Inquisition. You're good with that sword, I'll give you that. Do what is asked of you, Herald, and I will have no quarrel with you."

"Mind telling me what I've done to get on your bad side?" It occurs to Evelyn that she's in a poor position. She can't think of anyone in the Inquisition who doesn't fear Sister Nightingale. Is she so scary? Is it all wild rumor? It can't be. Even the most trivial gossip contains kernels of truth.

"You've done nothing." Her smile is like a dagger between the ribs. "You're a spoiled, pampered noble, accustomed to doing what you like, without consideration to others. That's the thing about nobles, no matter how big or how small, they think they're above everything. Your family's coin may have bought you out of trouble before, Herald, but there's no amount of coin that can get you out of the difficulties you may encounter here." Evelyn flushes red. So Cassandra was right. She has collected a frightening amount of information after all. "To think that Divine Justinia perished while you lived."

"I'm fucking sorry I lived and she died. Are you happy now?"

Leliana's laugh is winter. "You don't mean it."

No. She doesn't. And she's certain she's the only Trevelyan who feels similarly. "Fine. You hate me." Her heart pounds frantically. She is not accustomed to being confronted so directly, much less by one of the women who helped end the Fifth Blight, by the spymaster and Left Hand of the Divine. "If you have anyone else to seal rifts in the sky, by all means, call on them. It's not like I want to be here doing this."

"Of that I have no doubt." Another smile touches her lips. This one more earnest. Evelyn glares. "Josie's stitching was always a little crooked." She turns and leaves.

Evelyn touches a hand to her mouth and by the time she remembers why she sought Leliana in the first place, the woman has vanished. What's more, Evelyn doesn't have the reserves to do battle with her again.

* * *

 

Josephine knows it's time to retire for the night when she finds her head bobbing dangerously close to the candle. Ever since returning to Haven she has been shut inside her workspace. She has given much thought to Leliana's words and cannot disagree with her assessment. They have wanted to give the Herald space and some semblance of privacy, it's true—but these matters, her outside excursions must also be taken into consideration. Somehow, she thinks, the task of briefing Lady Trevelyan has fallen to her. It is during these occasions that Cullen has the enviable position of just bludgeoning his troubles away.

Josephine has undertaken the missive of writing to Brynn Cousland regarding her… meeting with Lady Trevelyan. Brynn has been flattered and her discretion asked; she has been subtlety reminded what repercussions could mean to any Cousland family ties, their immeasurable wealth and her children. It is not polite, but sometimes it is what is required. Better her than Leliana. She wonders if her old friend is aware of how terrifying she comes across at times, or if she is well aware and revels in it. Josephine stands, her limbs stiff, the collar on her dress too tight.

She exits the office and finds she isn't alone. The chantry is sprawling in darkness but Lady Trevelyan stands over the collection of burning tea candles, appearing deep in thought. Perhaps she is praying. Does she pray? Hearing her footsteps, Evelyn lifts her head. The light does something to her… makes her… altogether entrancing. A trick of light, Leliana would say. Josephine moves closer and Evelyn takes a step back, either to create distance or better look at her, Josephine cannot say. She looks at Evelyn's face, where she sewed her together. It is healing, albeit slowly. The swelling has gone down considerably but the stitches remain. There is a permanent indentation on her upper and lower lip, subtle but there all the same and Josephine knows she will never be able to unsee it. The cut along her chin is raised. Despite it all, Evelyn smiles before wincing, lifting a hand to her injury.

"You shouldn't smile," Josephine says, afraid she'll tear the stitches open.

"You shouldn't look so lovely in candlelight."

It's as if she's said something wrong for her face changes swiftly from a mild sort of contentment to worried and tense. For what reason? Josephine recovers quickly and puts Evelyn's words out of her mind. Likely Lady Trevelyan is one to speak lightly. "Have I interrupted you in the midst of prayer, your worship?" Evelyn mumbles. "I'm sorry?"

"Please don't call me that."

"I am not sure I can comply. The Inquisition and its members must lead by example and give you the proper reverence… but, when it is the two of us, I could call you my Lady, if that is preferable."

Evelyn glances at her. She gives no answer. She touches the red tea cups, holding the candles, turning them for a purpose Josephine cannot decipher. Perhaps it is ritual. "I've been waiting here—I wanted to speak with you. We haven't in… what seems like too long. I didn't want to interrupt your work so I've waited. But you work all bloody night, don't you?"

Josephine smiles faintly. "I nearly passed out on a candle. You might have put me out, if I continued as I was." Another reckless, pale smile touches Lady Trevelyan's lips. Josephine's sleepiness fades away. "I am sorry that we have not spoken since returning from Ostwick." It has been weeks and the Herald isn't one to sit around waiting. She's been on the field with the others, trying to spread word of the Inquisition, helping those in need. "How are you feeling? How is…" your face. "everything?"

There's a long pause. Evelyn bows her face before looking at her again. "I'm fine, thank you."

"I am happy to hear it." She doesn't believe it but she will pretend to take her at her word. She wonders what could be the cause of her concern. There is the Breach, but that has always been the case. Something more must be afoot. "What did you wish to talk about? Shall we speak inside?" She heads to the office but Evelyn shakes her head.

"I assume you were going to bed? I'll go with you. To walk you. To the cabin." Josephine agrees and together they leave the chantry and go into the night. The Breach glows wildly, casting the night in green. It would be beautiful if it weren't so terrifying. "I know the trip to Ostwick could have gone better. My family… I…" and once again she is tongue tied. Josephine looks at her but Evelyn looks as lost as she is. "The trip back was cold and rainy and I shouldn't have rushed to get back here. I was inconsiderate."

"Do not say such things." The words meant to reassure her seem to wound. "It was the right call, especially given that the others thought we were dead. Do not trouble yourself. I can handle a little cold and rain." Though she prefers not to. They arrive at Josephine's cabin. She expects Evelyn to depart but she lingers. "Was there something more, my Lady?" She hopes there isn't much more. Her fingertips have already gone numb and her toes are on their way.

Evelyn shuffles, heaving a sigh that spills white wisps of smoke from her mouth. She looks up at the breach, contemplative before returning her gaze to Josephine. "The soldier who returned ahead of us," her face is composed but there is something anxious in her voice. "Do you know what became of her? No one knows anything."

Josephine smiles. "Ah, yes. Ser Dahlia. Leliana has let her little birds imply that she is no longer amongst the living. In reality, she has been exiled from Haven, sent to Redcliffe with no stipend, but with an ear to the ground for us. Dahlia is terrified and knows she has been spared a certain fate. She will be useful."

"Leliana changed her mind?"

She chuckles. "Well, it took some convincing but I can be very persuasive and Leliana has a soft spot for me. I try not to abuse it." Only when she must. Relief washes over Evelyn's features. "This is good news, it would seem?"

"Yes. Great news." She smiles again, makes a small cry of pain. She touches her lips, blood coming away, just a dab. Josephine steps closer to better see, fingers searching for the hurt before composing herself and stepping back, grateful to not have made contact. Evelyn flicks her eyes to Josephine and she questions what she was so sure about only moments ago. "Leliana has a soft spot for you." Evelyn considers her words. "Then… you two are close?"

"We are. We met many years ago," she smiles wistfully, "in my wilder, younger days." Evelyn is taken back by the revelation. Those days seem like a lifetime ago. They were extraordinary and bursting with excitement and yet she knows she would not live that kind of life again. Another wind kicks up. "We found one another again after the Blight. The rest is history, as they say." Josephine touches the doorknob of the cabin. It's got a thin layer of frost on it. She tries to absorb the cold despite how she rebelled against it only moments ago. "What do you think of Leliana?"

Her eyes shift and Josephine knows whatever she will say is a lie. "She's… I like her."

Hm. What quarrel could she have with Leliana? Perhaps Leliana has been forthcoming again. "Is something on your mind? You seem… preoccupied."

Evelyn gives a small shake of her head. "I just… wanted to thank you for your kindness, Lady Montilyet." She steps closer but Josephine doesn't withdraw. "At Ostwick and… You have been gracious when I have been… ill tempered and... And now you've saved that soldier…" She exhales and Josephine watches the fog move past her lips again. She rubs her forehead. "I don't know how you're so good with words."

Josephine thinks it's the pain that keeps Evelyn from smiling bashfully. A pity. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Lady Trevelyan. You have many positive qualities."

"Such as?"

She thinks to turn the doorknob but decides against it. It seems too reckless of an action despite the cold, when Lady Trevelyan is so close. Perhaps she is only reminded of the flirtatious games she played when she was a bard. "Ah, well… That is—"  _You're beautiful._  "There is— you can seal the rifts in the sky. No one else has that ability." The answer isn't what Evelyn was looking for. "And…" Evelyn waits. The feeling has gone out of her fingertips. She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. Evelyn's eyes seem to glow in the darkness. "Forgive me—it appears I am not so gifted with words as you think. It's very late."

"So it is." Evelyn bows. "Thank you for your time. Sleep well, Lady Montilyet."

"And you."  _Please, call me Josephine._  But Evelyn is already gone. It occurs to Josephine that she's forgotten to have the talk with her about her … intimate affairs. Later, then. Not tonight.


	4. Trevelyan

For weeks they have been fostering the necessary relationships needed to gain the attention of the templars. Letters, coin, threats and assurances have been delivered and now, they have a good number of nobles ready to march with the Herald to Therinfal. Cassandra and Cullen suggested appealing to the templars. Josephine and Leliana are of a different mind. Leliana has a passion for underdogs and the oppressed. She has vocalized her support for the mages at Redcliffe.  _They fought back against those who would slaughter them; they asked only for freedom. Is that so wrong?_

And yet, the Herald decided on the templars. Cullen, Cassandra and Evelyn stand on one side of the table, soberly discussing the matter. Josephine and Leliana stand at the other. "This is wrong," Leliana mutters to Josephine before moving to the others. "I do not like this plan. I still say we speak to the mages at Redcliffe. Fiona is a former grey warden, a Grand Enchanter and regardless of your opinion over mages, it was not mages who struck a Revered Mother and spat on the Inquisition. Is that the Order you support?"

"That was one man," Cullen says, "you will not judge the Order by it."

"I'd like to hear the Herald's opinion, if you don't mind." Leliana places her hands flat on the table, looking intently at Lady Trevelyan who stares back evenly despite the most subtle of shifts in her body language. "You've never laid out your reasons for going to the templars."

"You asked her to decide," Cassandra looks to Leliana, "and she has decided. Rightly, I might add."

Leliana smiles but Josephine sees no warmth in it. "I'm sure you have provided the Herald with wise counsel, Cassandra. It's true that it's the Herald's decision. I just want to be sure she is seeking the templars for the right reasons."

"What are the wrong reasons?" Evelyn asks, frost in her voice. Josephine waits apprehensively. The two women lock eyes heatedly. Evelyn looks away first, her eyes flitting around the room, unable to settle on any one thing. "The groundwork has been prepared. The decision is final."

"New preparations can be made." Evelyn is unconvinced. "You'll stubbornly stick to a decision," Leliana asks, "no matter the stakes?"

"It's done, Leliana." Cassandra crosses her arms. "Drop it."

Another thin smile and Leliana bows her head. Cullen looks warily between the women. "The Inquisition and the nobles are ready to march. All the caravans have been prepared." Yes, and it all took a great deal of coordination and countless nights of sleep sacrificed to get matters in order. There are others who will meet the Inquisition in Therinfal but some jumped at the chance to be seen in the company of the Herald. Evelyn seems put out by the idea of traveling with them despite Josephine's assurances. "Once we begin the journey we are committed. If you have any reservation, Lady Trevelyan, now is the time to voice it."

"No," Evelyn looks at Cullen and then at Leliana. "I have no reservation. We march to Therinfal to recruit the templars." He nods, exiting the room. Leliana smiles and follows. Those are the smiles that Josephine finds most worrisome. Evelyn looks at Cassandra. "You'll protect me from scary Sister Nightingale, won't you?"

Cassandra laughs. "I'd like to tell you that she's all bark but… do not worry. You are the Herald and she will support you."

"Grand. We're sharing a carriage on the way to Therinfal, yes?"

"If that is your wish I have no objections."

"That is very much my wish."

Josephine clears her throat. They look at her as if having forgotten her entirely. "Your Worship, a word before you depart."

Evelyn regards her cautiously. "All right."

"In private."

"Whatever you have to say to me—" Evelyn begins.

No. What she has to say is for her ears alone. Lady Trevelyan appears a private person. It would not do to draw speak of such a personal matter with Cassandra present. "Please, Your Worship. I would keep this between us."

Cassandra arches an eyebrow. "Very well. Evelyn, I will wait outside." She nods at Josephine and departs.

It seems a silly thing to note that they are on a first name basis but she cannot think of any other in the Inquisition who refers to her as such. Josephine waits until the door has fully closed before focusing on her. Lady Trevelyan is wearing a new armor Harritt fitted for her, sturdy but not bulky, a pale blue sheen takes to it like the first light of the sky. Josephine remembers her former armor, stained and dripping with blood. It is clear that things between Evelyn and Leliana leave much to be desired. It is also becoming apparent that Lady Trevelyan has set her eyes on Cassandra—whether Cassandra realizes it or not. And despite that, Josephine knows the following conversation is necessary. It is a rare noble that will limit their passions.

"You're very serious."

Josephine smiles at her dour tone, teasing, she wonders, or mocking? "Then I apologize, for it is not my intention. This is a small matter." She draws a slow breath. "I understand that Ser Iron Bull will be going with you to Therinfal. The advisors are well aware of his penchant for brothels." Evelyn smirks. "The trip to Therinfal will take some time. Should you pass any such establishments of ill repute along the way, you may  _not_  follow his example."

Evelyn smiles again. "You're joking."

Josephine does not know what is meant to be the joke. That she would abide by such a request or that Josephine could consider Evelyn entering such a place. "If only I were. You are the Herald and as such—"

"I can do whatever I want?"

Josephine narrows her eyes. That is not a commendable attitude. "Surely you jest." The Herald may not jest about such things—even if the irreverent attitude is a jest in itself. She cannot take the title so lightly. It reflects poorly on her and on the Inquisition itself. It is the sort of thing the Chantry and all opposition would pounce on. Everyone is eager for ways to discredit them.

"What will you do? Get rid of me? Find someone else to patch the holes in the sky?"

"Of course not. We both know there is no other."

"Then why?"

"I did not think you would object so fiercely to not visiting brothels."  _Why_  does she object so fiercely to not visiting brothels? "Are you so fond of them?" She tries to imagine Lady Trevelyan there. It's true that many nobles frequent them. They are everywhere in Orlais and Antiva, after all but surely the Herald… Is she so insatiable?

"I'm not sure where this is coming from. Is this your idea or some  _other_  advisor's?"

Josephine very much doubts she refers to Cullen. "It is known that you spent time with Serah Brynn in Ostwick, my Lady."

There's a beat. "Is it?"

"It is." Josephine moves closer, seeing her distorted reflection in the armor and turning her face up to Evelyn's instead. The scar is carved like a small fault line along her lips and chin, a marble statue cleaved open with a blade.

"Is the Inquisition spying on me?"

"It is not spying when so boldly done."

Evelyn's jaw is ground hard, her lips contemptuous despite being the one on the defensive. "Sister Nightingale's little birds would do well to keep their distance."

"And what of me, Your Worship?" Josephine uses the title purposefully and sees ice thicken and recede as swiftly in her eyes. "What shall you do, when it is I who is near? When it is I who overhears your… indiscretions?" Evelyn stares back at her. "How will you deal with  _me_?" Likely Evelyn's words are an empty threat like many of the blustering nobles. Common but disappointing.

"And what is it that you heard?"

"Enough." It is still far too easy to hear Evelyn's unsteady breathing, the disdain with which she spoke of her. "I heard enough. In any case, if you  _must_  divert yourself, keep it within the Inquisition." Their people are malleable. Their people would do anything for the Herald. They would not seek to injure her reputation.

Evelyn dips her face closer to Josephine's, her voice confidential, her breath warm. "Do you want to keep me for yourself?"

Evelyn is much too close. Josephine moves only her eyes, glancing to lock onto Evelyn's. "Be serious. I am responsible for how the Inquisition is seen. Whatever ill you hold towards Leliana, I ask that you let it go. This is my directive." At Leliana's behest but her's none-the-less. She must shape the Inquisition, by shaping the Herald herself, no matter how she draws Evelyn's ire.

She scoffs, pulling away. "So even the Ambassador gets to tell me what to do. Perfect. You know, if you wanted a pretty face for the Inquisition, maybe you should have done a better job stitching."

Josephine swallows her tongue and for some seconds is left without air. She finds a quill on the table and wraps her fingers around it. She needs a grounding force, a source of strength. So she goes to the quill. She smiles inwardly. Leliana would laugh, would ruffle her hair.  _Oh, Josie. How like you._  Or maybe she'd take the quill and murder Trevelyan with it. And still… it wasn't long ago that she and Lady Trevelyan were nearly getting along. Was it only the trick of the candlelight and the blinding stars that kept them from lashing at one another? There's a long silence. "I apologize if you found my work unsatisfactory." She turns to her and forces another bright smile that sours Evelyn's mood further. "Sometimes my fingers tremble when I am nervous." The Herald falters, some of the iron bending before she turns, heading to the door. "Before you go—if I may ask. Why  _not_ speak to the mages in Redcliffe? Is it truly such an appalling idea?"

"Go to the mages?" She laughs bitterly. "Do you want my family to bloody crucify me?"

"It is true that things have always been a certain way. But with the world thrown into chaos—it is the duty of the Inquisition to bring peace and order. It is time for bold action. If we aid the mages, they will benefit, as we will. You could  _help_  them, Herald."

"I'm a Trevelyan before I'm the Herald. I don't get to make my own decisions. Not at home and apparently not here, either."

"You  _are_  a Trevelyan. Modest in temper." Though that is currently in question. "Bold in deed."

Her eyes cloud. "I've never been a very good Trevelyan." She bows meanly. Josephine did not think such a thing was possible. " _Lady_  Montilyet." The door bangs open and Evelyn exits.

"What was that about?" Cassandra asks Evelyn, following after her as she storms down the Chantry halls.

"A song and dance about the mages at Redcliffe. Nothing more."

Josephine has difficulty uncurling her fingers around the quill.

* * *

 

"You are in a terrible mood." Cassandra says. Evelyn blinks, looking from the passing scenery of trees, carriages, Inquisition guard. "You haven't said a thing in hours. Do not tell me you are thinking of my fine company."

"How about a kiss to make it all better?"

_"What?"_

Evelyn waves it away, shrinking into herself as Cassandra eyes her suspiciously. She  _is_  in a terrible mood. The matter with Ambassador Montilyet has left her agitated. Who does she think she is? Sealing the rifts isn't enough? Now they're dictating her personal matters?  _She's_  dictating her personal matters? Pompous, ruffled, uptight ambassador.

Not only that, she acts as if it were so simple to throw her support behind the mages. As if that wouldn't make matters considerably more difficult. She doesn't want to be here, she doesn't want to be the Herald, she doesn't want to be the face of the Inquisition. And now she must follow Ambassador Montilyet's 'directive'. It's absurd. She ought to tell the prissy ambassador that  _she's_  the one who gets to make the rules, after all, she's the Herald. They need her more than she needs them. She doesn't even need them. She could walk away. They said she could do that. They also said the world would come after her and they might not be able to protect her then. But she can hide. She can stay gone long enough…

Cassandra peers at her and Evelyn bites the inside of her lip. And what? Leave Cassandra and the others to battle a sky shitting falling demons? What would Cassandra do? She wouldn't dream of abandoning her duty. Why can't she be even a fraction that the seeker is? Evelyn doesn't know how. She lacks courage. She doesn't know how to be anything other than what she is. The thoughts leave her fatigued.

If only Cassandra  _would_  kiss her and make it better. Maker knows she could use a kiss. Stupid ambassador. She's never stepped foot in a bloody brothel. She knows how to get her needs met. But now she's tempted. Maybe she  _should_  find a brothel. Surely the Ambassador, if she's as talented as everyone claims, has such ways to fix things. What does she think she heard, anyway? She gave no impression she heard anything at all. Maybe it's a lie. She tries to imagine Josephine outside the door to her room, listening—. She doesn't know how it makes her feel. Flushed and uncomfortable.  _Don't think about her._

She thinks of Josephine's stupid bright smile.  _Sometimes my fingers tremble when I'm nervous._  Evelyn remembers wrapping her fingers around Josephine's slender wrists, holding until the shaking subsided, Josephine's small song, some honeyed smooth thing. Why did she fool herself into thinking that they could get along? Because Montilyet was trying to save face for the Inquisition? Stupid woman. Her eyes are grey, Evelyn confirms to herself. No. Green. Maybe her eyes change colors. Like those lizards that adapt to their environments; a useful skill for any diplomat. Josephine wouldn't forbid Maxwell from going to a brothel (not that he would).  _I'm going to go to a brothel._   _I will force myself to go to a brothel._

She'd rather not. She tells herself to focus, forget Josephine's absurd demands and concentrate instead on Cassandra. What if Leliana does come after her? It's easy to talk back to her in front of the other advisors but what if Leliana came after her when she was on her own? Would she just piss herself? Despite the jokes Evelyn's made, it is a lucky thing that Cassandra is on her side, that she has the stupid mark on her hand. Even now it burns like a fire brand.  _Would Cassandra even like you if you didn't have it? If you weren't from the reputable Trevelyans?_  She doesn't want to think about it.

"Perhaps this isn't the time…" Cassandra says. Evelyn looks at her. "But might I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything." Hopefully she'll ask to start courting her.

"Leliana and Cullen have mentioned you were once a templar." Cassandra watches her. Evelyn isn't sure she hasn't stopped breathing. "I do not mean to pry. I have waited for you to speak of it, given the circumstances but you have not. I find that most curious. It seems a thing you would mention."

It does, doesn't it? Evelyn isn't sure if she's smiling, if she looks serious or blank. She licks her lips and glances out the small carriage window. She doesn't know if she seeks courage, the proper words, or time for Cassandra to forget she's asked. "It's another Trevelyan family tradition. If you're third or fourth born, with no chance of inheriting any estate it's off to the chantry or the templars you go. The templars sounded more exciting," she says apologetically, "fighting mages, drinking lyrium."

"That is what drew you? That is not what the templars stand for."

"I was young." She sighs. "It sounded different enough. Better than dresses and parties and... Maybe if I came from a family of dragon hunters, I would have gone after that instead. Can you picture that? Me, fighting dragons?"

"Can you?"

A shrug. "I don't know."

"You are no longer a templar."

The carriage feels cold but no mist comes from her lips or Cassandra's. She might only be imagining it. "No. I'm not."

"It is difficult to leave the templars. The lyrium addiction alone…"

She eases a finger over the indentation on her lips without realizing. "You left the Seekers." But for entirely different reasons. Why the void did she say that? They have nothing in common. It's an insult to even compare them. Evelyn's face is scalding. She turns her attention back outside. She wanted Cassandra in the carriage with her but now finds it stifling.

Maker, she hopes there's some action to be had in Therinfal. She can't take the thinking much longer.

* * *

 

They have been back only hours and already they're engaged in heated debate. Josephine has not pinpointed the cause: the nature of the crimes the templars are said to have committed, the toll of a journey that was more perilous than anticipated or Leliana and the Herald's dislike for one another.

"You simply allied with the templars, in effect giving them the power and protection of the Inquisition!" Leliana snaps, walking around Evelyn. "What were you thinking? You should have consulted us, Herald. That mark on your hand does not give you the authority to make such decisions."

Evelyn glowers. "You wanted power to close the breach; I bloody found you power to close the breach."

"You are naïve." Cassandra dismisses. The Herald's shoulders slump. No doubt she did not expect for Cassandra to join ranks with Leliana. "Their crimes were grave. We should have taken them to task. With this we have given them carte blanche."

"I suppose the Herald is forgiving of templar crimes," Leliana says.

Evelyn flinches. Josephine does not envy her position. While they have debated, Josephine has taken notes. She has received word of the nobles that came to a tragic end at the hand of the Red Templars. It certainly does not bode well for the cause that many who allied with them died at Therinfal. She will have to reach out to their families and arrange a great number of favors in order to control the situation from spiraling into disaster.

For the time being, the room demands her attention. She dislikes when tempers become so heated that all parties cease to listen, cease attempts at understanding or cooperation. Cullen looks helplessly at Josephine. She steps forward. "An alliance with the templars was our desired outcome. Let us set aside these disagreements and instead focus on what is to come. Preparations will have to be made. There will be the matter of lodging, food… not to mention the considerable lyrium that will be required. It will be no easy task making such an arrangement."

"It won't be cheap, either," Leliana says. "This venture to Therinfal has cost us much."

"I imagine the the mages have found some lyrium replacement I've yet to hear about," Evelyn looks around the room. Leliana only frowns lightly. "No? Then I wager we'd be in this very predicament had we gone to Redcliffe as you suggested."

"I fear what a camp full of mages might have looked like," Cullen seems tired of the talk, "especially without templars to keep order."

"Let's hope they keep it better here than they did Therinfal." Leliana glances at Josephine. "I'll start work digging into sources for lyrium routes. When the time comes, you'll cement the finishing touches. Cullen, I trust you'll know what to do with templars in the beginning stages of withdrawal? They will be difficult to control."

"I'll see to it."

There's more chatter before the group disbands. Josephine catches Evelyn before she makes it too far. A bruise mars her pale skin, curving along her cheekbone like a claw. She doesn't slow. "Ambassador. Come to tell me I've screwed up, too? Or come to ask how many brothels I wandered into in your absence? I can't give you an exact number. I'm afraid I lost count."

"I have come for neither, Your Worship." Nor are there reports that she entered so much as one brothel. Thank the Maker. "I meant what I said. Our aim was to find allies and we have. The terms you gave the templars  _were_  generous but I believe that will be a credit to the Inquisition. Prisoners seldom make for long-standing allies. Was the situation in Therinfal truly difficult?"

"We lost a number of nobles. Violently. Forget about seeing the light of day and pucker your lips, Ambassador." So this is where they are now, Josephine thinks. Back to titles. "There is a great deal of flattering you'll have to do to get back into their good graces." She shakes her head. "It all happened so fast. I couldn't stop it." A sharp exhale. Does she regret their loss? Does she feel guilt? "I don't know  _how_  you can fix this."

"It can be fixed. You may disagree—but I do have my charms. I will put them to good use." Her words with the nobles will have to be carefully chosen. If there's anything an insulted noble loves it's to feel as if the world is prostrated at their feet, at the mercy of their will. A common thing. Evelyn looks at her a long time before moving ahead. Once more, Josephine follows. "I have read your reports." Lady Trevelyan has startlingly elegant manuscript, a contrast to her blunt recounting of the events that took place. "An Envy demon, Red Templars, that curious ghost boy and… you mentioned entering some strange reality." In this so called reality the Empress had been assassinated. "But you wrote little outside of that."

"The envy demon was trying to screw with my head. It showed me…" Her eyes trail over Josephine thoughtfully, then she sighs, as if tired. "I don't want to dwell on it, if that's all right with you."

"Of course. I have no wish to make you recount uncomfortable things." Evelyn nods stiffly, continuing her trek to exit the chantry. "Lady Trevelyan." Josephine is left without words. It is a foreign experience. She does not know why she called her back or even what she intended to say. "I… hope our last conversation has not given you cause for offense. It was not my intention to make things difficult between us. I am an agent of the Inquisition but I am also at your disposal, should you have need. I am skilled at putting out fires, it's true, but I prefer to not to mitigate at all. Sometimes preparation and caution are all that are needed to avoid a dangerous situation."

"And I suppose I am your project? The fire you have to put out. Have my actions with Serah Brynn left you having to mitigate, Lady Montilyet?"

She wonders if she articulated it poorly. She wonders how long this Brynn and Evelyn have been involved. From their conversation it sounded as if they'd been apart years but as if their …ventures were somewhat more regular when together. It's inappropriate to ask. The details don't matter. "It is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things." But it needs addressing regardless.

"I'll try not to be a thorn in your side. This is why you should have kept your nose out of it at Ostwick. Cleaning up my messes— you're only creating trouble for yourself."

"It is no trouble."

Evelyn smiles apologetically. "If you value your reputation you might reconsider."

Josephine's heart thrums. What exactly is this reputation of Lady Trevelyan's? Is she so amorous? Or is there more? She considers the words at the breakfast table on the day of their departure—the disagreement between Maxwell and Evelyn. Did she seduce a lover of his? Such things are not so uncommon among noble families, despite how harshly they may be judged. And still… It is taking a great deal of work to restore her family name to what it once was. She is fully devoted to the cause but she had not anticipated it could impact her family dealings. "There is no cause for concern. We work together. Nothing more. Your actions will not cast their shadow on me."

"Not if you're any good at your job. And I suppose you have some talent," she states the last flatly. "I'll try to keep my actions and my shadow close to me and away from you. You need not concern yourself over my feelings—"

"That is rather drastic. We may be associates but I still care for your well being. You are the Herald, after all."

"We mustn't forget that."

A beat. "I have given much thought to our conversation prior to your departure to Therinfal Redoubt regarding the matter of… how I tended to your injury. I was not aware of the depths of your displeasure." That, she decides, is what has troubled her most. She has not forgotten how her mouth was split apart, how Evelyn let her piece her together without question, without complaint. Then, anyway. The memory of Evelyn's fingers on her flesh still lingers. How hot her blood was, when Evelyn herself can appear so cold. Where is that heat, Josephine wonders. "I may see no fault but it is your estimation that matters. I should not have insisted on doing the deed myself. I should have secured a talented healer. I know how such a thing might affect any future marriage prospects, particularly for those of noble blood. I am so sorry." She bows her head lowly.

Evelyn turns her head, as if having been slapped, but does not look at her. The doors to the chantry are open and she stares with unrelenting focus to that sliver of blue sky outside. "No, it is I who must apologize," her words are thick and halting. "You were—it was—I was out of line. I'm sorry. Please –forget I said anything." She rushes away, as if incapable of bearing any response Josephine may have.

* * *

 

She can see no benefit to being the Herald of Andraste. Constant fighting, a convenient scapegoat for everything that goes wrong; every decision made scrutinized, every movement tracked. This is far worse than anything she endured in Ostwick. If she'd just gone into the bloody chantry as her father suggested when she was younger, she would not have had the skills to fight, she could have traveled in a carriage, sealing rifts when the need arose. Maybe she wouldn't even be the damned Herald.

And now Cassandra has turned against her. She only agreed to be the Herald of Andraste to be close to her. A stupid reason in retrospect, no matter how attractive Cassandra is, considering the mess she's in. But it was more than wanting to be close to her. She wanted to do something else. She wanted to be something more. It was never about saving Thedas. It was about herself. Maybe that's why everything has gone to shit.  _It's not as if poor decision making is a novelty with you._  No. But she doesn't have to like it. Maker, she really is an idiot. What's worse is that Leliana has every right to question her. The woman is an ingrate and  _still_  she is right. Who knows what poison she's feeding Cassandra and the others about her.  _Is it poison if it's true?_

Maybe she could leave in the middle of the night. She could take a horse from the stables and go. The thought has crossed her mind every night since arriving in Haven. She doesn't want to be surrounded by templars. She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't know what to do when others are counting on her. No one has ever counted on her. Not in a long time.

She has abandoned any notion of rest. Not only has she a lumpy, thin mattress to contend with, she can't stop thinking about Therinfal. So many nobles gutted by templars in seconds. It was horrifying. It's one thing for templars and mages to kill one another, warriors and soldiers—but templars against unarmed men and women who haven't so much as lifted a sword in their lives. They were only there because they believe in her cause, in her. Did they die for nothing?

Nor can she shake that bizarre future where the envy demon used her influence to stomp out any opposition, a future where she silenced her detractors. All tempting things from time to time. But that's normal. It doesn't make her a criminal. She isn't like that  _thing_.

Strange visions from that future are burned into her mind. Leliana cutting Cullen's throat open, Josephine, practically dancing around her with a blade, touching it along Evelyn's face. The blade was cold and when Evelyn tried to grab onto her, she disappeared. It felt so real. The suffocating humidity in the air, the stench of death, blood, piss and fecal matter.

It's no future she wants to see. Maybe if she leaves she won't live to see it.  _Maybe if you leave, it happens._  So what? It's her responsibility to stop an empress from being assassinated? How the void is she supposed to do that? She's only one person, Herald or no Herald. And she is no Herald. Maybe her father is right and this is all a mistake. Maybe something dark was drawn to her for her past cowardice. Maybe this isn't Andraste's blessing. Maybe this is some curse. She doesn't know.

"Herald. Herald?" Evelyn blinks, lifting her head to see the innkeeper staring at her. What's her name? Evelyn searches for it. Flint. Fleet? Lisa? Fleece. Flea?  _It's not Flea._  "I couldn't help but notice that your glass is empty. I was getting ready to close down but would you like me to fill it up?"

Evelyn looks around the tavern. Sure enough it's emptied out. She isn't sure when that happened. She came to listen to Meryden's songs and forget herself in drink. Surely she's allowed to do that. Until Josephine comes and tells her it wouldn't do for the Herald to be seen as a drunkard. Damnable woman with her clipboard and candle, quill and ink. That face. Evelyn rubs her forehead. She doesn't want to think of her. "A drink would be grand, Flissa."

The Innkeeper's face lights up. "Oh. You remembered my name. I – that's… why, thank you."

She remembered a name and just barely. Big deal. Being the Herald carries a lot of weight. Even the most insignificant things mean something when it shouldn't. They forget she's as human as any of them. What's a title, anyway? Cassandra should have been the Herald of Andraste. She can't imagine anyone refusing to rally around her cause. "How could I forget the name of such a beautiful woman?"

Flissa blushes. When Evelyn first met Flissa, the innkeeper stammered, talked about being ready for 'that kind of love', clarifying 'not that kind of love—unless that's the kind of love you'd like'. Evelyn thinks so. 'Love'. Yes, that kind.

She gets to her feet, pitifully sober. Not even the drink was enough to take her mind off things. Perhaps it's something else she's in need of. Evelyn brings a hand to Flissa's face, feels it heat beneath her fingers. Keep it in the Inquisition, the Ambassador said. This should do. "I stayed because I was hoping to speak to you in private." Lie number one. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I arrived in Haven." Lie number two. "You're the most beautiful woman here." Lie number three.

"That is—that's not… oh, Andraste," she fumbles, her cheeks gone near as red as her hair. Evelyn eases it carefully behind Flissa's ear.

It's easy to speak to this woman who means nothing to her. If only it were as easy around Josephine. The woman, no doubt, thinks her an imbecile. Flissa looks at Evelyn with painful earnestness. It's almost difficult to look at her. "Perhaps you'll do me the honor of allowing me your company tonight." She doesn't want to think of templars, her family, Cassandra, Leliana, bloody Josephine. She wants her mind to be blank. She wants only pleasure.

Flissa reaches up, her fingers touching delicately along the cut on her face. Evelyn snatches her wrist viciously, pulling it away. No. Not that. Flissa's wrists are thicker than Josephine's, the palm of her hand not half as smooth. Flissa is stunned.  _Josie's stitching was always a little crooked._  A sick wave of heat courses through her. Was Leliana fucking with her? She can't stop thinking about it. She took it out on Josephine Why? Because they're close and she can't stand up to Leliana?  _Clear your mind._  Evelyn forces a smile. "I'm sorry. You startled me."

"Oh. It's my fault."

"Make it up to me."

Evelyn kisses her but feels little. She's never felt any great excitement from this. Her lovers have been as disposable to her as she has been to them. Maybe it would be different with Cassandra but she's told herself the same often and it never is. She kisses Flissa fiercely, searching for some spark that doesn't come, guiding her back, up the stairs and into what must surely be Flissa's room. Evelyn closes the door gently, locks it behind her. "Are you nervous?"

"Of course. You're the Herald. I'm just…"

"I'm nervous, too." Lie number four. "You don't know how long I've wanted to touch you." Lie number five. None of it matters. It's just a way to pass the time. Evelyn strips her but takes her time with her own clothing. She instructs Flissa on how to touch her. Is Flissa Andrastian? Religious? Does it matter? Does Flissa do this because she thinks the Herald's special?

_I'm not._

After it's done Evelyn dresses and sits at the edge of the bed. Everything comes rushing back. So even that doesn't work anymore. She sighs inwardly, watching Flissa drift off to sleep. She's pretty and sweet enough, but Evelyn has no interest in getting to know her. She hopes the innkeeper won't harbor any illusions about attachments. This was a mistake. Evelyn leaves her, taking the stairs down and moving behind the bar to pour herself a drink.

Maybe it won't matter after they seal the breach. Once it's sealed she can return to her life—even if she doesn't know what that life really is. She doubts anyone would miss her.


	5. Liars

_Dear Yvette,_

_How are you? As you **might** imagine, I am keeping myself quite busy in my work for the Inquisition. I know that is what's best for Thedas and in turn for our family. It is challenging work, but rewarding. That isn't to say it is not without its problems. Haven is cold and so removed from everything. I miss the glittering waters and the sun warm on my skin. I have no doubt that you are making up for my absence by attending every soiree—except, of course, the ones which you are meant to attend._

_I know how you attribute these moments of forgetfulness to your artistic temperament but do try to see to your social obligations. If not for me, then for Mother and Father._

_Speaking of Mother, she tells me you have switched tutors yet again. And that the last young man—there was romance on the horizon? There are many fine young men in Antiva, Yvette. Perhaps if you were more diligent in attending to your social engagements, you might yet find someone suitable—and I may have less than a dozen tutors to make payment to._

_Regarding your latest letter. For the last time, I am not off having a 'whirlwind romance'. The Inquisition is not a haven for wild orgies and general debauchery. As for Lady Trevelyan… she is…_

There's a gentle rapping on the door before it swings open gently. Leliana. She walks in, moves around the desk, looks down at the letter and then closely at Josephine. Josephine counts the freckles on her ivory face before Leliana smiles and produces an apple as if from thin air. "Lady Trevelyan is…?" Leliana prompts. She sits on the desk, begins peeling the apple, spirals of red skin coming loose. "And there are so wild orgies and debauchery. Iron Bull is very popular." She carefully cuts out a slice of apple, extending it to Josephine. Josephine leans forward and sets it between her teeth before touching her fingers to it. Leliana smiles. "You'd know if you ever left this room."

"I doubt I would know half as much as you, even if I did leave it."

"Want to know another secret?"

Leliana's eyes dance and Josephine can't help a smile. This is more like the woman she remembers. She was always such a prankster, always with so much light in her eyes. They got into a great deal of trouble together. Haven has been slightly less dull of late but it doesn't mean that Josephine hasn't missed her finery and parties, the champagne and sweeping music. "Tell me."

"Our  _dear_ Herald took it upon herself to bed Flissa." A sigh. "Poor girl. No doubt she'll toss her to the side like all the others."

Josephine lowers the quill enough to rip the paper. She swears in Antivan, softly under her breath, smoothing as best she can the tattered sliver of paper back into place. Ink comes away on her thumb. When she looks back up, Leliana is looking at her curiously. "I  _did_ ask her to keep it within the Inquisition. She has followed my instruction nicely." Flissa is around her age, a nervous thing, pretty. After a fashion. She touches her forehead as if to remove the thought.

"Does this upset you?"

Josephine smiles. "Absolutely not. The Herald is grown and she is allowed her affairs. I am more concerned with her … relative absence since the templars have begun to arrive at Haven."

"No doubt she's as skittish around them as any mage."

Josephine does not miss her tone. "You and Lady Trevelyan are not on amiable terms." Leliana scoffs. Josephine touches a hand to Leliana's, is thrown back to a cold cabin with a bleeding Trevelyan before focusing on the present. "Do you require a mediation?"

"A mediation?"

"No one has missed how tense things are between you. It would take only one slip up, Leliana, one flare of that temper of yours for outsiders to see that there is discord between the advisors and the Herald. We cannot afford that."

"I can control myself. The same cannot be said of the Herald." She slides off the desk and she's cold again, that new Leliana, methodical, logical. "Do not worry, Josie. I will not create a scandal but I wouldn't plan on leaving this office any time soon. I've no doubt Lady Trevelyan will keep you quite busy."

"Leliana…" Josephine gets to her feet. "Please. Do not let us part in such agitated states." She eases a hand along her arm. Leliana looks at her, eyes soft as knives. She has been tense since the death of Divine Justinia. Josephine has passed her room at night and heard her soft crying. It is enough to rend her apart but Leliana is proud. She would not wish comfort in a moment she would claim as weakness. "Do not worry yourself. I can keep the Herald under control." Flissa and Lady Trevelyan. She never would have imagined it. "As for the other matter you will not name. Allay your concerns. I assure you, they are without cause."

"I'm glad to hear it but if you don't mind, I'll continue to keep an eye on the situation."

"Leliana…"

She laughs softly. If Josephine listens closely she can find the slivers of warmth. "Here," Leliana places the apple in Josephine's hand and brushes a kiss onto her cheek. "Promise you'll join us for a meal sometime? I know you're busy but think of it as keeping up appearances."

She slips away and Josephine's stomach grumbles. She has a bite of the apple, chewing it thoughtfully. Leliana keeps providing details she has little interest in hearing. Josephine returns to the desk, picking up her quill anew.

_As for Lady Trevelyan… she is… friendly. To a fault,_ she finishes.

* * *

 

Evelyn was sixteen the first time anyone pressed their lips to hers. Brynn found her in the library, where she had taken refuge from the party, sitting in a scratchy confining pink dress. She was home visiting from the Circle, her templar recruit armor left behind at the tower. The dress was a 'gift' from her father.

She trembled as Brynn's lips moved against her. She'd been nervous, ashamed, excited. So many feelings all at contact. So much elicited with just the brush of skin.

Brynn was a friend of her father's—formerly a friend of her departed mother's.  _I held you when you were a baby_ , she used to say. She was twice her age and beautiful. The scent of her delicate perfume was all Evelyn dreamed of for a time.  _I know why you avoid all the dances._ And she kissed her again and again until Evelyn was left intoxicated, ensnared in a spell she couldn't possibly understand.

For weeks Evelyn thought of her obsessively. When the next soiree came along, she was excited; a first. She isn't sure what she thought might happen. That Brynn would leave her husband for a girl who was only four years older than her daughter? Evelyn took her hand on the second floor, having waited what seemed an eternity to catch her alone. Brynn's eyes were cutting, she withdrew her hand as if burned. "What are you thinking?"

Evelyn floundered, her face burning with humiliation. She fled, retreating to her bedroom, fighting tears. Brynn found her late into the night, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. "We may be nobles but we are not Orlesian. Such things are not tolerated, and you, dear girl, have not bore children to even have your opportunity for play. You're almost a child yourself."

"Why did you kiss me if this is a game to you? If you don't care for me? I care—"

"No. You don't, sweetheart." Her fingers grazed along her chin. "This can only ever be a game amongst nobles. At least between two women. It isn't real."

"I'll find a non-noble." Her voice shook, her eyes glistened. Was she angry? Upset? Desperate? To this day she isn't sure.

"You'd dirty yourself like that?" She was surprised, appalled. "Well. Don't bother forming attachments. I know their kind. They'll never want you. Just your title. They want only status, they want only a claim and coin." Evelyn's chin quivered. "Your father would not approve. Nor would your mother. But don't worry. I'm here." She brought Evelyn's hand to her breast. Evelyn's mouth was a desert until Brynn's, sure and confident, fell over her own, hot, wet and greedy.

"Herald?"

Evelyn takes a breath, ripped out of memory. She has been sitting on a tree stump on the outskirts of Haven, watching snow fall in spirals. She supposes it's pretty, even if her fingers are red and cold. How long has she been out here? She looks up. Flissa, wringing her hands and nervous. Evelyn's own nerves stir. She gets to her feet, dusting the snow off her shoulders and hair. She doesn't know what to say to her. The Templars have been trickling into Haven for weeks. Tin soldiers. Evelyn remembers the day she wore that armor. She wonders if armor ever comes off. Herald, Flissa calls her. Not Evelyn. Does Flissa know her name? Does she care?

"I saw you come this way some hours ago," Flissa smiles up at her. "You must be freezing."

"It's not too bad."

"Oh. It's just—I haven't seen you in … in too long. And when we have seen each other… I wondered… I wondered if perhaps I'd done something—or said something—" she is so earnest that Evelyn has difficulty looking at her. "I don't—I don't usually… do a thing like that—if that's what you're worried about—I don't— But I understand— If you want nothing more—if it… wasn't good—" she laughs nervously, "you're the Herald—and … easy on the eyes… I'm sure you could get anyone. Maybe that's just something you said—and a stupid thing like me…"

Evelyn wishes the ground would open up and swallow her. Her face has grown hot again. She has always hated her inability to hide her shame. "No. Um. I meant what I said," she forces, "I've just… I've a lot on my mind, Flissa. There was nothing wrong. It was all… wonderful." Lie number six. She slaps her shoulder lightly. "All right?"

Flissa smiles. "Oh. Andraste, you don't know what a relief it is to hear that." Her laughter is soft and bright. "I thought… I worried…"

Evelyn bites her tongue but shifts her face so that Flissa's intended kiss grazes her cheek instead. "It's freezing out." She inclines her head towards the main camp. "We should head back."

They walk back, Flissa chattering animatedly. Was that a way out? Should she have taken it? Does she only wish to avoid hurting her? She's always hated confrontation.

Herald, Flissa calls her. Not Evelyn. Does Flissa know her name? Does she care? They walk out into the clearing. Josephine is speaking with Blackwall, that same tattered cloak drab around her, elevated somehow, just to be worn by her. They glance in her direction. Evelyn's lips thin as she unconsciously creates distance between herself and Flissa.

"Ambassador Montilyet and Blackwall are a lovely bunch, aren't they?"

Evelyn's eyes settle on Blackwall, the small proximity between him and Josephine. She's never really thought about the grey warden. He seems a noble sort, she supposes. Her eyes only skim across Josephine, nodding vacantly at her before moving on. She looks at Flissa. "What was the question?"

* * *

 

There's a frantic knocking on the door. Josephine stands cautiously. Who is awake at this time of night? It cannot be Cassandra or Cullen, they would announce themselves. Leliana would simply walk in. She straightens the paperwork neatly on the desk before opening the door. The Herald stands before her but not in her usual heavy armor. She wears black leathers, a cloak and panic. Her face, Josephine dares say, is paler than usual and despite the frigid cold that comes off of her in waves, her face is glazed with sweat.

"Herald? What is the matter? Has something happened?" Evelyn doesn't speak. She is dazed and looks frightened or ill. "Lady Trevelyan," she takes her hands. The contact is registered. Silver eyes flit to their hands and then to Josephine's face. "What troubles you? Pardon my saying so, but you look a unwell."

"Let's go out. For a walk." Josephine looks at her warily. She pulls away but Evelyn takes her hand as she turns. "Please. It's important."

Preparations have been made. The Breach is to be sealed on the morrow. The templars have been taking lyrium, they have been instructed by Cullen and Solas on how to focus their will on the Herald. Evelyn has stood before them, stiff and petrified, clenching her fingers. Perhaps she is only nervous. Yet why would she go to her? Why not Cassandra, why not another individual better suited to her needs? It is evident how little Lady Trevelyan cares for her. And yet… Josephine sees no reason to flat out deny her. "Very well. I must prepare a few things for tomorrow. Give me some moments?"

Evelyn nods and steps out into the hallway. Josephine is not eager to go into the night. She is not even sure she should be alone with the Herald. Their every interaction leaves her uneasy. With the door ajar, Josephine can feel the chill of the dark, the howling of the winds. She takes her time, finishing the morning checklist for herself and stepping into the hallway. Evelyn stands at the candles, eyes closed, hands violently laced, lips moving silently. Perhaps on this night she prays.  _You shouldn't look so lovely in candlelight._ Ah, yes. Easy words for Lady Trevelyan. And here she thought she'd put them out of her mind entirely. What matters is that the Herald is troubled for no reason Josephine can identify. Josephine wants to ask what it is she prays for but it would not be appropriate. What is between a person and their Maker is their own business. Trevelyan separates her hands and shifts, much the way she did the night that seems like ages ago, the night it seemed they might get along. There is a long silence. "I did not know you prayed, Lady Trevelyan."

"Only when I'm terrified," she laughs shakily, her fingers clenching and unclenching. The candlelight is so kind to her face. "Shall we go?"

"What are you frightened of?"

"Being alone tonight."

Josephine frowns. "I know how you like to spend your free time. I do not know what illusions you are under, Lady Trevelyan but when I offered my services—" Evelyn shakes her head. Does she not want to hear her words? Or has she just humiliated herself needlessly? "Oh. That isn't—" No. Evelyn Trevelyan has made her dislike clear. How could she assume that the Herald would have any such interest? She has flattered herself. Even if the Herald avoids emotional commitments, it does not mean that she would want her to satisfy any base physical need. "I have made assumptions—I'm so embarrassed—"

A decisive shake of the head. "Not that you aren't lovely—" Evelyn grimaces as if the words pain her. "But I would never come to you for that. Not that people wouldn't. I mean, you're— But not that they should. They shouldn't. You're a lady." A lady? "Maker." Her fingers tremble as she brushes them over her pale hair. "What am I doing? What am I doing?" She mutters to herself. Wild energy, like that of a caged animal, whips around her.

Josephine has questions but no answers. All she has is some ability to communicate and communication is not limited to words. She brushes her fingers over Evelyn's. It is enough contact for the nervous speech to stop, for Evelyn's eyes to light on her. And the next instant, Evelyn has twined their hands, as if holding on to life itself. Her grip is painful but Josephine does not think it is Trevelyan's intention to hurt her. Everything about her is tight, her posture, her face, her lips set so firmly. Only her eyes are uncertain and wavering. The windows to the soul, some say. Josephine tries to recall the last time she held anyone's hand that wasn't Yvette's, while they walked through the mercantile shops in Antiva. She cannot recall. "Just breathe, my lady."

Evelyn takes a long, deliberate breath. Then she walks. They walk. Evelyn's footsteps match her own. Their hands swing gently between them, despite the fierce hold, despite the wind that rages outside. Josephine looks to Evelyn's face. It is like stone, glazed in ice. They step outside and Josephine's lips part, her worries forgotten.

The night sky is alive with dancing, pulsing lights, greens, reds, purples and blues. They move in waves, cascading and crashing. It is a stunning, glorious display. She is taken with wild joy. She wants to run to the cabins, wake everyone, share with them this strange occurrence. Shared experiences bring strangers close, and what a lovely thing to speak of, to have in common, how lovely to be reminded of such beauty. "My goodness. This is extraordinary." She smiles up at the sky and to the Herald who is stiff and tense, despite the splendor. The bright colors glint in the snow, in Evelyn's pale hair. "Do you not agree?"

Evelyn looks to their hands and back to Josephine. "Yes, of course."

"Is this why you asked that we walk?" She said it was important. If it were anyone else she'd suspect a clever ruse. The Herald claimed they must walk, that it was of great importance and held her hand, leading her out to gaze upon the most spectacular sky that Josephine has ever set eyes on. What else is she to think?

Evelyn laughs softly. "Honestly—Lady Montilyet—I'd not noticed the night until this moment." Hrm. That is a peculiar thing indeed. One would have to be blind or under a considerable amount of stress to miss such an event. "I came to you because—well. I knew you'd be awake. And I didn't know where else to go." The words are halting, her hold fiercer than ever. Josephine bites on her tongue to keep from releasing a cry. "You said I should come to you if I ever needed anything. If… You said that you could mitigate. Maker." She releases Josephine's hand and paces, her cloak fluttering in the biting wind.

Josephine misses the heat of her hand. Odd given how she now works to loosen her stiff fingers. "Are you in danger? I will find Leliana and Cullen—" She turns and is caught, strong hands holding her in place, a body pressed to her back. It might be comforting in other circumstances. There have been parties, those nights when she played the Game, when a particularly playful partner would find her in the darkness. But this is no game. This should never be welcomed. She is the Herald and Josephine the ambassador. It would be inappropriate. And further… she knows what little weight Trevelyan gives these manners of things. Despite having these facts in hand, Josephine closes her eyes and exhales shakily. "Lady Trevelyan, please. It will only take a moment." Evelyn's hold slacks enough for Josephine to turn and face her. Evelyn does not give her distance. Her breath fogs frantically in the air. Josephine lifts her hands to Evelyn's face. It is wet from snow, cold and perspiration. "Tell me what is wrong."

"Please don't leave me alone. Not tonight. Not for a moment."

"You keep saying as much but I do not know the cause. You're trembling. Please, let me rouse the others, my lady. It will not take long. I swear it." Trevelyan's hands wrap around Josephine's wrists, tight and desperate, different than before. There is no calm here. Only an infectious uneasy energy. In other circumstances, Josephine might ask if Evelyn only wants to keep her hands pressed to her face but she cannot be lighthearted now. Eventually Evelyn's strength saps away, her eyes dimming. She releases her. "I will get them. We will find a way to resolve whatever ails you. Perhaps you will be able to tell them what you are unable to say to me."

There is only the sound of the whipping winds, tents and signs flapping under its force. And then, with some regret, Trevelyan nods weakly. Josephine leaves her, ignoring the lights in the skies that shimmer and sway, skipping along the icy roofs in Haven. She hurries to Leliana's cabin. Perhaps Trevelyan is poisoned? Leliana knows the remedies to such things.

Josephine doesn't know what force stops her and makes her glance back. In the distance, by the gates she spots Evelyn's horse, saddled with enough items to fill Josephine's heart with doubt. Evelyn moves towards it like a shadow specter, her shoulders slumped. Instinct takes Josephine. She runs, pumping her arms and legs furiously, sprinting as best she can in her dress, in her thin shoes over hard, frozen ground. It is very unladylike and she has no doubt that were she in Antiva or Orlais, it would be a scandal. Clearly she is not accustomed to the effort. Her lungs hurt. Her hair has come loose, wavy locks falling over her eyes, falling unevenly to her shoulders. She clasps Evelyn's hand in her own with a ferocity she did not know she had before Evelyn can reach the reins of the horse. It might be too late then. "Come with me," she says breathlessly, "I beg you." Her heart hurts. Her world trembles. Josephine takes her other hand and walks backward, tugging. Evelyn follows. "We'll spend the night in my cabin. The two of us."

They reach the cabin, Josephine not releasing Evelyn's hands until they're inside. Normally she'd be nervous, worried at what might be perceived as impropriety but it is terror that grips her. The Herald nearly left them. She nearly left them in the hour of their greatest need. What if she had not come to her? What if Josephine had not looked back? There are too many variables, too many ways for all of it to fall into disaster. It is dizzying and not even the freezing cabin can snap her out of it. Evelyn stands wordlessly, looking cautiously about the space, uncertain as someone who is unsure of where to place their eyes when a beautiful woman happens to be changing in front of them.

"Lady Trevelyan." Josephine is sure to keep her voice soft. She does not want to give her cause for alarm. "I must set things in proper order." She swallows, aware of how wispy her words sound. "I will not be long but I must know that you will stay here." Evelyn stares at the empty fireplace. "My lady—"

"I'll stay here until you return."

"Do you promise?"

She does not look at her. "I promise."

With a tremulous heart, Josephine leaves her. She considers locking her in but what would that truly accomplish? If Evelyn wants to escape she'll find other ways. She would not keep Lady Trevelyan hostage. If that is what it takes… then perhaps she is even less than the worst one could think about her.

The horse is at the gates still, hooves impatiently scuffing at the ground. Josephine takes the reins and leads it back to the stables, so numb from what has unfolded that the typical merciless winds have no effect on her. It has been some time since she unsaddled a horse and she battles with finding the buckle to the billet strap. The weight of the saddle is considerable. It is a struggle to secure its proper location in the dark.

There are several small packs, the few belongings Trevelyan gathered. Josephine opens the bags and looks through them. Evelyn has taken very little. A small booklet on the Chant of Light,  _The Tale of the Champion_ , weathered with many folded pages, a slim book on Antiva. Josephine doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She flips through it. There's a letter inside, folded with her name written in Lady Trevelyan's elegant hand. Josephine snaps the book shut and continues her explorations, racked with nervous energy.

There's a half loaf of bread and a small brick of hard cheese and enough material for a poor tent. Her greatsword is nowhere to be seen. She has taken twenty silvers and nothing more. Josephine swallows hard. Her intention was to leave Haven with next to nothing for the journey. Maker.

She thinks of Loghain Mac Tir, Mefareth and wonders if Evelyn Trevelyan will join their ranks. Josephine makes her way to the food holds in the chantry and returns the bread and the cheese. It is not much but it is worth returning. She does not want anything to be out of place, she does not want to leave any room for doubt—she now has enough for everyone.

_Has she left? Has she gone?_  The thought assails her with every step she takes. Josephine cannot run. She cannot be seen behaving erratically on the off chance that someone wakes and sees her moving about. She passes Leliana's cabin and stops. Leliana called her here because of her 'painful integrity'. Right and wrong has always been easy for Josephine to differentiate. She is no longer sure.

Leliana has lost much. Her past has made hope an audacious thing. Josephine does not know all of it. Leliana keeps much close to her heart but Josephine knows enough. Divine Justinia died and the Herald lived. Josephine knows how this has grieved Leliana. Could she bear to know the true character of the Herald when there is already so much animosity between them?  _And what right have you to be the one to make the decision?_ What of Cullen? Could he keep such a thing to himself? No. She cannot ask him to do such a thing.

Truthfully, the only thing that has united the advisors, is their faith in the Herald. No matter her past, they believed that she would be the one to lead them through the darkness. Now there is word of some dark god, awoken from his slumber, the Breach is bigger than ever. Can they know that the Herald considered leaving them in their darkest hour? A flick of wind and she hears a small flapping. She looks down to see a letter, weighed down by stone on Leliana's door. She stoops, grabbing firm hold of the letter before lifting the rock. There is no name but when she opens it she recognizes that same elegant hand. It is too dark to read it, despite the light in the sky. She takes the letter and feels like a criminal.

She repeats the same process at Cullen's doorstep and Cassandra's. She's unsure of who else she might leave letters for but visits the companion's sleeping quarters to be sure. She is relieved to find nothing. She goes to Trevelyan's cabin last and lights a candle on her desk, sitting, knowing she has little time. Maybe she is gone, even now.

She reads the letters hastily, skipping over words, other pieces latching onto her.

_No doubt when I joined the Templars my father and the Knight-Commander envisioned a person who matched your character._

_I think of you as a friend—the only one I've ever had. My life has always been lonely. The happiness of our time spent together has been quickly fading away. Every moment I spend in your presence, I feel like an imposter._

_I know you hate me. Just as I resent you for knowing who I am and not letting me forget it. It must give you great satisfaction to know you were right all along. Maybe you'll find me and drag me back. You have the skill. Maybe you'll just have me killed._

The letters crinkle in Josephine's hands. She exhales shakily and gets to her feet. Every part of her trembles. She is cold and hot, she is feverish. She returns the books to the humble bookshelf and stops. She has forgotten. There is one more letter.

Josephine's fingers move carefully over the pages of the book on Antiva, as if the edges of the paper were blades. She finds the letter and removes it, replacing the book on the shelf. The letter is heavy as a boulder. Josephine holds it as if it were an explosive. She tries to focus on anything else and fails. The letter commands her attention. She opens the first fold.  _My Dear Lady Montilyet, I suppose I owe you an explanation._  Her heart jumps. She folds it back up, clumps it with the others and after having replaced the silvers in a desk drawer, makes the return trek to her cabin.

She stands outside of it afraid of what might happen if she opens the cabin and it is empty. Lady Trevelyan said she'd wait but why would she? She accepted being the Herald and was ready to abandon that role. Perhaps… she does not dislike her, as Josephine once imagined but is that enough? Enough to hold her?

Well. Nothing will be resolved standing outside in the frigid darkness. The only manner of finding out if Trevelyan remains is to open the door. She wraps her fingers around the cold metal and turns the knob, pushing it in. It is no longer the icebox it was when Josephine left. It could be that Josephine has acclimated to the chill of the revelation or some small thing to do with the fire Lady Trevelyan has lit and sits before. She is here. She has not left. Josephine observes her figure, smaller in black. Even her back looks contemplative and sad. Josephine's heart soars and plummets. Action must be taken. She has always enjoyed a challenge but this is… particularly rigorous.

"You are still here. Thank the Maker."

Trevelyan seems as surprised as she to remain. "It felt like you were gone ages." She glances back uncertainly. "The advisors aren't with you? Then… they're on their way?"

"They are not." Josephine sighs softly. What is the correct course of action? Is it to tell the advisors and surely damn the Inquisition, to tear them apart with infighting at the Herald's failure? The ramifications could be catastrophic and might bring the Inquisition to a grinding halt. Josephine knows that it is too soon to decide anything. She cannot accept and process the magnitude of what has happened in the little time that has passed between the revelation to now.

She could ask Trevelyan what she was thinking but she read the letters. She knows. She does not accept it, does not absolve her of responsibility but she does know. How much she holds inside that stony and at times smiling exterior. The Herald of Andraste is fearful of tomorrow's events. But she does not fear for the right reasons. She does not fear the repercussions, she fears only her reputation. A typical noble attitude. Josephine kneels beside Evelyn on the thick bearskin rug. She is so angry. She knows she cannot speak just yet. Antivans value passion, yes, but it is not half so romantic, so worthy when it is tinged with anger and betrayal.

They stare at the fire for what feels like hours while Josephine clutches the letters in her hands. Then, she throws them into the flames. The paper catches, pages curling, smoldering, blackening. "Your letters," Josephine says, "and my 'painful integrity.'" She smiles ruefully.

"Those are—"

"Yes."

"Did you read them?"

"Some." All but the one addressed to her. She feels as if she has already been compromised. She does not wish to create a deeper conflict of interest. "I have returned everything to what it was. Erased all that would give away your intentions." Evelyn has yet to look at her. She is obsessed with the fire. "What you have tried to do—" she breathes lowly, as if afraid another might hear, even as it is difficult to hear her own voice over the wind and the crackle of the fireplace, "it cannot ever be known." So. She has made a decision after all. "Do you know what it would do to the advisors to know this about you, my lady? Do you know what it would do to the soldiers and the people who have come here for refuge?" Her eyes tear again. "Do you know how you have betrayed us all? How can you live with yourself?" Evelyn scratches her brow gently, a hand running over her hair. She pulls her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and sets her head down. "And after everything, you cannot so much as look at me? Are you so ashamed?"

"How can you ask that? Isn't it your job to read people? How do you  _think_ I feel?" She scoffs. "What would you know of shame? You've never done anything to dirty yourself. You're bloody perfect."

Oh. That's rich. What the Herald knows about her could not fill a thimble. Were she in a better mood she would suggest Lady Trevelyan speak with Yvette. As it stands, she is bordering on livid at Evelyn's careless words. "Haven't I? I have spoken to nobles and written to notable figures, to the people, of your worth. I have spread the message that we are a cause worth rallying around, that you are loyal, honorable, selfless. That you have and will do everything necessary to keep the people safe. You fooled us  _all_ , Herald. I am to become the head of the Montilyet family. Currently—the Montilyets are respected in Antiva. They are  _trusted_.  _I_  am trusted. You have made me into a  _liar_ , Lady Trevelyan. You have come to me—to mitigate—but the only way I know how to mitigate, the only way I know how to save this Inquisition  _and_  you is…" the consequences of her actions become more apparent the longer she speaks, "is to erase all knowledge of this terrible thing. I will have to lie to my associates for you. I will have to pretend this never happened."

"I haven't asked you to do that."

"You've come to me to fix it, have you not?  _This_  is what it requires."

A long silence passes. "I'm sorry. I never meant to risk your family name."

"My family, my blood is everything to me. But it isn't only my name you have risked. Not only the Inquisition. You have risked Thedas."

"I haven't  _risked_  anything. I  _haven't left_. I'm  _here_."

Here because Josephine happened to glance back. She would prefer for Evelyn's participation in the Inquisition be less precarious. "For how long? Until responsibility cripples you again? Until I look away for an instant? How can you be so reckless? Have you no sense of duty?"

"No."

It is unthinkable to her that anyone could take their obligations so lightly. Ah, the youngest born is always the most frivolous. She watches Evelyn get to her feet and follows suit, afraid she'll rush away into the night in some final act of rebellion. She considers Evelyn's words to Cullen.  _I know the horror that comes when you must perform your duty swiftly and without a moment's hesitation. I know what it is to face it and fail._ "And does that not trouble you?"

"These talks trouble me."

"Then why seek me out?"

"I don't know. You're the wordsmith. I thought if anyone could talk me out of leaving… But when have words ever done anything? I mean, as far as advisors go…" She bites her lip and shakes her head. "Nevermind."

So. Lady Trevelyan is back to that sort of talk again.  _I'm afraid I've lashed out at Lady Montilyet because I've been too frightened to stand up to you._ She wrote Leliana. _That was cruel. She has only ever been kind and I've resented that kindness, knowing I'm unworthy. I should have thought to learn it. But can kindness truly be learned?_

It is easier to dismiss her rudeness when she thinks of what she has written. "What have words ever done? Only started and ended wars, my lady." But how does she explain subtlety, tact, to a woman whose primary task is to resolve problems by cutting them in two, by sealing the untouchable with a flick of her hand, to a woman that plows through the world like a force of nature? It is the same difficulty she has with Cullen, with Cassandra, whose first instincts to opposition are to crush it.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I lift my hand to the sky and rifts close. I don't do anything that's special."

Josephine laughs shortly. "Tell me then, where we may attend to another with the same gift. Bring them to us and you will be free to go on your way." Evelyn all but rolls her eyes at her. "You know as well as I do that that is no option. You know what you must do—even if you want no part of it. Tomorrow you will seal the Breach. Do you not understand that this is also your life at stake?" Cassandra has told her that Evelyn has complained of the pain, that the Anchor has spread further down her arm the wider the Breach grows. "If you do not care for the rest of us, surely you care about yourself. You will die if you leave that Anchor unattended."

"Oh, this old thing." She says flatly. "It only hurts when I laugh."

Josephine cannot recall the last time the Herald laughed. Evelyn looks like a pile of misery. Josephine wants to comfort her, no matter how little she deserves it. Why would she wish to have any connection to such a low creature? Lady Trevelyan is not an honorable person. How sad. She can give the Herald no comfort. She will not compromise herself. The kindest thing she can offer Trevelyan is pity. And pity has always been something given to those who are lesser. "This is not the time for levity."

"No. The hour is late. Perhaps it's time for bed. You did suggest we would be here all night. Just the two of us." She looks at Josephine. Her glistening eyes spark.  _Happiness does not erase loneliness,_  she wrote Cassandra. _When loneliness is your home, all other feelings are fleeting visitors._ "Shouldn't we make the most of it? Let's attend to whether your mattress is something we can bear to spend the whole night in. I know we have nothing in common but I'm game for trying."

What? Those words—a reference to a conversation they had long ago. She will not be distracted and irritated into losing her senses. Josephine shoots her a withering look ** _._** "You are the last person—"

"I know." Another collection of words lacking inflection, directed at the fireplace, indifferent to her response. Would she be as apathetic if Josephine acquiesced her ridiculous suggestion? Earlier she stated she would never think to come to her for such a thing. What does she actually believe? Does she believe in anything?

She can say things so easily, she can say them without conviction, she can say things that mean nothing and abandon them as easily when they are not well received. How does anyone have such an ability? "Have you finished with your games, Herald?"

"I'll never be finished with my games." A beat. "And don't call me that."

"What shall I call you? Traitor? Imposter?" Evelyn scowls. "No. I will call you Herald for that is what you are, no matter your preference, no matter mine." Josephine's eyes have dried, her passions firmly in control again. Evelyn's title is what saves her. If she were not the Herald, she knows what Leliana would do. And she isn't sure that she could blame her. So many lives endangered, so many lives lost in vain. So many fighting for her. And Josephine's duty is to spread word of the Herald of Andraste, to have others join their cause for this… fraud. "Maker. You have put me in a terrible position."

"Do you have any suggestions for a favorable position?"

She doesn't understand her meaning. Then, icily: "You do neither one of us credit, Herald." She will not flush at her words. She truly will never be finished with her games, it would seem.

Evelyn's face reddens. "I say things—when I'm nervous. I don't mean to—I'm sorry."

"Your transparent attempts to get under my skin are not the issue." To think that they held hands and gazed out at the magnificent sky. A beautiful night, ruined. A beautiful gesture, transformed into a most horrible memory. "The dawn is nearly upon us—and so is your last opportunity to escape. Listen to me, Herald, for I will not repeat myself and we will  _never_ speak of this again. You have made a liar out of me and I do not like being made a liar. Things  _will_ change.  _You_  will become the liar.  _You_  will become the pretender. You _will_  pretend to be what you have tricked everyone into thinking you are. You will pretend until it becomes who you are. Until it becomes the truth. Until I am no longer the liar. If you are not willing to do that, leave. Leave now so we may ready for when things become truly dire. The Inquisition does not favor cowards. I  _do not_  and  _will not_  champion a coward." It is evident now, why Evelyn was so concerned with Ser Dahlia, who fled at Ostwick.

"You'd really let me walk out of here?"

"If you would leave, you are no one I would have stay."

She scoffs, her fingers twining anxiously. "You haven't told the advisors. When will you?"

"I have already said that they cannot know. My word is bond, Herald. Words may mean nothing to you but they are everything to me."

A grim smile. "And you'd help me? Why?"

"Do not flatter yourself, Herald. I am not doing it for you. I am doing it for those who have lost all but hope.  _You_ are that hope. I cannot let them know what you are. They could not bear it. They would despair and then everything would be truly lost."

"So I'm meant to save them?" A bitter laugh. "I'm only in it for myself. Don't you know?" Josephine frowns. "You can't really think I'm the Herald of Andraste. My father is right. As much as I hate it. The Maker would never choose me to save anyone. Tell me you don't believe it."

A plea, masking a potential escape route. "I should very much like to believe so." Can she, when she knows what she has nearly done? And if she was truly sent by the Maker—what does it mean that she would choose to abandon them? Leliana feels the Maker has left them. Vindicated she may be in knowing the Herald's character—but how she would grieve for the world. "In any case, there are many who believe you walk in the Maker's light."

"But you don't."

Josephine purses her lips and looks away from her. "I do not know what to believe. I know what you are capable of. I know that you fought bravely in Ostwick when many would have fled. I know you can seal rifts in the sky. More than that, Herald—I cannot say."

"Oh."

"That is all you have to say?"

"What would you have me  _do_? What would you have me  _say_?"

"Have you not heard me? I would have you stay and seal the Breach. I would have you swear to me, Herald, that you are not craven, that everything your family said about you is not the truth. I would have you swear to me that I did not leave my family to tarnish my reputation and lay to waste all that I value by singing your praises." Her voice rises, little by little, her Antivan passion coming to the forefront, but with it, anger, worry. "I would have you swear to me, that you will not make me a liar, that this night will not fill me with regret for the rest of my days."

"Oh. That's all?" A sardonic smile pulls her lips. "I could swear to give you the world, Lady Montilyet. Would you believe me?" The air leaves Josephine's lungs. Once more her eyes burn. Josephine mourns this moment. Is she willing to risk the world on the word of a liar? "Don't do that." Evelyn mutters. "I'm sorry." Do what? An instant later Lady Trevelyan's fingers are on her cheek brushing an errant tear away. The contact does not stop there. Josephine would ask that she desist, had she the ability to speak. Evelyn eases a lock of hair behind her ear. Josephine shivers. She must look a fright.

The Herald faces her now and only then does Josephine see the streaks of tears that have dried on her face. Is that why she stared at the fire for so long? An ironic smile graces her lips, the same lips Josephine put back together. Evelyn settles a hand at the back of Josephine's neck and for an instant she fears and yearns for the Herald to draw her closer. Evelyn's voice is unsteady but her gaze is unflinching. "I swear to you, Josephine Montilyet, to never run. I swear to you, that I will not make you a liar.  _I_  will become the liar.  _I_ will become the pretender. I will do this until your word is honorable, until I become the Herald that Thedas and the Inquisition deserves. I will not ever give you reason to regret this night. May I die before I give you cause to question me again." A beat. "Will that suffice, my lady?"

Josephine's throat is dry. She licks her lips. "That is… an adequate start."


	6. Ashes

The cold seeps into her and she wakes shivering, a milky pale sunlight fighting its way past the frosted windows. Evelyn turns onto her side with a soft groan. Camping outdoors is grueling but at least she has a sleeping mat. Hardwood floors are another matter. Her body is stiff, her head foggy. Rifts and templars plagued her dreams. She doesn't immediately recognize where she is. This isn't her cabin.

She shifts. Josephine is asleep in her humble bed, her fingers curled around the pillow, her face, troubled. Evelyn frowns at her and remembers the letters flung into the fire. It took her ages to write those letters. It's light out and she's trapped, bound, like some demon to a mage, to this woman's word. A servant. A vow impulsively made. Why would she make it? Why would Josephine believe it? She shouldn't be the Herald. She didn't seek it. They said she could leave. Maybe they never meant it. It's easier to stay if there is the security of escape.

Anger wells inside of her. Today she must go to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and seal the Breach. She has no choice. No real choice. She's never had a choice. As a noble, her lifestyle belonged to her father, as a Trevelyan, her life belonged to the Chantry, as the Herald her duty belongs to the Inquisition. But what about what she bloody wants?

She gets to her feet, half her body asleep, the other half aching. So she is to be the pretender, the liar. Will it be more of the usual, or will it be a new manner of living? Every moment of her life before has been composed of small acts of rebellion, slipped between the roles she's been assigned. She supposes this means smiles, cheer, perhaps unyielding bravery for it is the last thing she feels. She has always been afraid.

_All you have to do is seal it._ Oh, that's all. She massages her left arm gently. Sometimes in the darkness green light crackles under her skin, as if threatening to rift itself. Can such a thing be good? She'd like to believe so. What would it mean if all of this were thrust upon her and it was  _not_  the will of the Maker? But that's pessimistic. It isn't anything a Trevelyan or Herald should believe. In any case, the Maker cannot be so cruel. The truth is, that more than anything, she wants something to believe in. Odd. For everyone else, that thing is her.

She looks at Josephine. Was she a fool to go to her? Her objective was accomplished. She stayed. She didn't run away. She didn't let anyone down—except for Josephine. Another small frown touches the ambassador's face. Evelyn shuffles quietly through the room, gathering some bundles of wood and rekindling the dying fire. After everything, the least she can do is keep her warm. She stands beside the bed, thinks of waking her or saying some parting words but she has nothing. What can she give her? Gratitude? Resentment?  _Listen to me, Herald, for I will not repeat myself and we will never speak of this again._ Oh, sure, she's essentially property now, something to be itemized and taxed but the terms can never be discussed. That would be  _impolite._  Evelyn pulls the blankets over Josephine's shoulders and exits into the brisk morning instead.

And comes face to face with Leliana. The bard's eyes are cutting. Evelyn's guts twist, her fingers still on the doorknob. She lets them fall away and tries to move around Leliana, who preempts her step and moves with her. Evelyn hopes she won't throw up on her, though seeing Leliana wipe away bile from her Inquisition robes would give her some satisfaction. Josephine said she didn't tell the advisors. Was it a lie? "Interested in a dance, Sister Nightingale?"

"What are you doing here? I know how you like to sleep in until all hours of the day. Many of the camp's most diligent have yet to rise."

"Maybe I wasn't sleeping."

Leliana takes her in as if she were some artifact up for auction, her value being determined, flaws being sought. "Well. Don't let me keep you. You have a big day today and must prepare." She steps aside and Evelyn moves past her.

She holds her breath and waits for the knife. Leliana's eyes burn a hole into her back. She waits for the knife until she reaches her cabin and exhales though she still can't breathe properly. Some part of her still waits for the knife. Nobles tell lies. Nobles play games. She's never been particularly adept at either—not their sort of games. The kind Josephine and her ilk play. No matter. She must seal the Breach today. Her fingers shake. She swallows and looks through the room. The books have been replaced on the bookshelf. She picks up the one on Antiva and flips through the pages. It's empty.

Her jaw clenches lightly and she replaces the book on the shelf.

* * *

 

Josephine wakes. The morning light is much brighter than anticipated. She has slept in. A rare occurrence. Perhaps the warmth of the cabin has something to do with it or the mental exhaustion of the night prior. She expects to see Evelyn on the rug before the fire but it's Leliana she sees. Josephine shoots to a sitting, her heart hammering. She looks around the cabin. The Herald is not present. She was there, staring into the fire reduced to blurring and soft light before sleep claimed Josephine.

Has the Herald left? Josephine stands too quickly and her legs don't catch up to her. She stumbles, nearly falling, catching herself on the chair. Leliana looks at her and smiles. "Did I startle you?" Josephine looks back at her and then away. What has she done? She swore to the Herald she would keep her attempt at escape between them but did not fully realize what such a thing would require. She will have to stare into Leliana's face and lie. It's one thing to flatter, one thing to mislead strangers but this… And Leliana is so adept at separating truth from fabrication. "I can't remember the last time you slept in," Leliana stands, "were you up very late last night?" She places a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"You brought me here for a challenge and it would appear my work is never done." She flashes a smile and stills when Leliana palms her face carefully, touching the ringlets of hair that came loose in the night. She remembers the Herald's fingers on the back of her neck  _May I die before I ever give you cause to question me again_ … such words. Josephine takes Leliana's hand and pulls it away gently. Leliana lets it fall to her side and Josephine feels her gaze on her as she moves about the cabin, wondering if the Herald has left some hint that she was here. She sees nothing. "How may I help you?"

"Some nobles have arrived preemptively from Nevarra. As you can imagine, Cassandra has no interest in attending to them."

"You do not say."

"We're all surprised," she rolls her eyes, "but that is why you are here, to apply your special brand of ferocity." She lifts three envelopes, holding them as if they were playing cards.

Josephine takes them. "I am to kill them with kindness?" She smiles, opening the letters, thinking of the one she threw into the fire. What did Lady Trevelyan write to her? "That I can do."

"They are not Pentaghasts but it does not mean they are without value. They are extremely interested in Lady Trevelyan. Word has spread of our intention to seal the Breach today. They have come here in hopes of being part of the celebration." Ah, yes. But does the Herald remain? Josephine's smile is somewhat tighter. "Flatter them, flatter her."

"And so our cause shall be flattered. I know, Leliana."  _An ambassador should ensure that the tale is as complimentary as possible,_ she told the Herald. No matter the cost. And so she must. "I shall attend to these Van Markhams." The Pentaghasts are dwindling in power despite how many of them exist. It has always been a tug of war between these two families. "Is it also your wish that they meet the Herald?"

"Their wish, not mine. The Herald has much to prepare for today. I would not have her meet them without being prepped in some fashion. Not all nobles have your guiles. I'd hate for her to damage the Inquisition by speaking out of turn."

"They can wait to meet her  _after_  she has sealed the Breach. They'll happily eat up whatever fool thing comes out of her mouth once she emerges victorious."

"You're confident, Josie. Are you so sure she can do this?" Josephine isn't sure of anything. "I seem to remember you being a tad more… equivocal."

"What diplomat isn't?" It is the diplomat's greatest weapon. "And If not her, Leliana, who?" she smiles. "Now I must ready for today's visitors. I've already had a late start." She walks with Leliana to the door. "I'm sure you have much to attend to yourself."

Leliana's eyes flit along her face, to her hair, to her cheeks, to the hem of her dress. Josephine battles to keep her breath steady. She's still battling after Leliana has gone. She frowns, peering into her reflection in the mirror. Small lies, a politician's game, really. No different. Leliana would do the same. It isn't lying. It's damage control.  _Calm yourself. The Herald will come through._

* * *

 

They're five steps out of the cabin before Evelyn lurches to the side, purging herself in a thicket of frosty bushes. Cassandra wrinkles her nose. The Herald is white as a sheet and dripping sweat. Odd on a day that is so cold that Cassandra's face has already gone numb. The templars wait at the gates, ready for the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"Herald?"

Evelyn shakes her hand, lifts a trembling hand. "Oh, I'm fine—" she heaves again, falling to her knees, her pale fingers twining in the thorny branches. Cassandra sighs. She must be considerably nervous if she's throwing up prior to leaving. The camp is buzzing with excited energy, Cullen and Solas spent the majority of the prior evening and this morning prepping the templars to draw the energy from the Breach. If all goes as planned, the Breach will be gone in only a few hours and the people can hope again.

"How can I help?" Cassandra asks.

She looks up at her, eyes shadowed like a raccoon. Has she rested? "Care to seal the Breach for me?"

"Very funny." It is not.

Josephine approaches them, the Van Markhams in tow. Ugh. The ambassador spots the Herald, vomiting on her knees and discretely turns the nobles in another direction, drawing them away. Cassandra smiles wryly. Maker forbid the simpering nobles see their dear Herald on her knees retching. One does not seem quite so holy when they are purging acid from their stomach and water, for that is all that it appears to be. How long since the Herald has eaten?

"We can delay no longer." Cassandra reaches down, grabbing the metal of Evelyn's neckpiece and dragging her to her feet. Evelyn looks after Josephine and her entourage before turning her nervous and unfocused attention to her. "For what it's worth, I believe in you. The Maker sent you to us. You will see us through. You're our Herald."

Evelyn smiles nervously. "Thank you. That means—" she lunges away from her and vomits again. Cassandra sighs inwardly. Minutes pass before the Herald gets to her feet, wiping at her mouth. "Okay. Okay. Okay." She says. She doesn't look any better for wear.

They march.

* * *

 

_Somebody, help me!_

Her head hurts. Evelyn doesn't like this place. She doesn't like thinking of the Divine's terrified voice. She doesn't like giant flying rocks. Rocks aren't meant to fly. There is everything wrong with the Temple of Sacred Ashes and her arm burns more fiercely than ever. The templars have gathered around the temple, like a protective guard. Maybe they don't know who she  _really_  is, maybe things are so dire they're willing to forget.

She takes deep gulps of air as Solas, Cassandra and Cullen issue instructions. The Breach stretches above her like a cavernous mouth, threatening to swallow her. What will happen if she doesn't seal it? She should have left but she made a promise. Some promises ought to mean something and Cassandra looks at her as if she is the last great hope.

She does remember the templar training. She took a swig of lyrium before leaving Haven, a soft, faintly familiar whispering song plays in her ear. It's nothing she means to make habit but today, she needs everything she can to pull through.

She lifts her left hand to the sky. The templars shout behind her, burying their swords into the ground and a force moves over the temple, sweeping into her, a wave wild and bright, making every inch of her sing and believe. She can seal the Breach. She will seal the Breach. For an instant she believes it and it's all she needs.

Her fingers search, some piece of her that stretches further than she can, and finds its way, hooking into that latch in the unknowable sky, like a door that only needs to be pulled shut.

Maybe this isn't a curse. Maybe this is a gift. Maybe this is a new life, a new opportunity to live up to her family name, to atone for her past, to give back to the world in a way she never thought possible. Maybe she can make her family proud. Maybe she can be someone who doesn't always have to hide. Maybe this is a gift from the Maker. Maybe Andraste did choose her.

The thought is like sunshine inside of her, bright and loving despite the clouds, the ominous green light, the gravity defying boulders. Everyone is focused on her. Everyone is here to save her. Josephine insisted she come here. Cassandra believed in her. Maybe this is her purpose after all. Green light burns like wildfire around her. There is so much of it, like lightning pouring into her hand, all of the threads that hold the skies together attaching to her.

Yes. She is the Herald of Andraste. She has a Divine purpose.

She yanks her hand back and there's a loud, deafening clap of thunder. A blast forces her back and she lands hard, the air knocked out of her. People are screaming. No. People are cheering. She looks up at the sky. The green is gone. The Breach is gone. The Breach is gone! Cassandra gets to her before the others, pulls her to her feet. "I did it," Evelyn tells her breathlessly, and her smile feels as if it will break her face.

"Of course you did it." As if she never had any doubt. How did she think of leaving Cassandra, about throwing her to the wolves? How thoughtless. How short sighted. What regret she would have been filled with. Evelyn throws her arms around the seeker in jubilation, celebration, and Cassandra laughs, clapping her shoulder awkwardly. "All right, that's enough."

Sealing the Breach. Yes. That is enough.

* * *

 

Josephine need only look to the sky to know the Herald has succeeded. She does not afford herself the luxury of relief. Now, there must be time for celebration. The Breach is sealed and she dispenses the lay sisters to begin the necessary preparation, to bring out the small festivities planned for such an event. It takes hours to set up, the hours necessary for the Herald to make the return trip to Haven. It is nothing on the scale of what she is accustomed to arranging but for Haven, that only has a passing notion of what civilization is, it will be quite the affair.

The Van Markhams think it quaint.  _Ah, yes, and how lucky we are that you are here with us on this most momentous occasion, on the day that the Inquisition becomes something more._  How they love such things. She walks Haven with them and has ensured that they are attended to by the most beautiful lay sisters they have on hand, all servile, each attentive, pouring wine, retrieving the sweets from their rare stocks. With every word spoken, another gold sovereign is pledged.

Finally their demands to see the Herald are too great and Josephine knows the matter can no longer be delayed. Music wafts through the camp and Josephine goes to the Herald's cabin. It was only last night that she was here. She tells herself she must not think of such things. She knows how to hold her tongue but it is an easier task when such matters are also absent from her mind.

She knocks on the door. There's a loud thud, some swearing and then the door opens. The Herald stands in trousers and a shift so thin it's practically transparent. Josephine is making out the outline of her body when Evelyn slams the door in her face. Josephine blinks, smiles at the Van Markhams, "I do hope you find it in your hearts to forgive our dear Herald. Herald she may be, but she grows quite nervous in the company of such esteemed company. She is from an Ostwick family," she explains, as if she were a country bumpkin.

The Van Markhams nod, also think of that as quaint. Moments later the door opens again. She's wearing her full armor now. Her skin still smells soapy, her armor glistens like the sun. She smiles at Josephine before it falters, noticing the nobles in her presence. Her lips purse—and once again, nothing. A noble getting tongue tied around other nobles. Josephine cannot say she has often encountered such a trait. "Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, if I may introduce you to the esteemed Van Markhams, renowned family of—"

"Nevarra," she nods, her eyes skimming over them, most fleetingly over Josephine before she bows her head. Ah, so the Herald does know a few things. Perhaps it is all that time she spends reading. "You… honor us by visiting Haven."

They trip over themselves to commend her on her bravery, to congratulate her on sealing the Breach. If only they had seen her last night, or earlier. Well, it is a good thing they didn't. The Herald is gracious, however clear it is that the praise makes her uncomfortable. When their curiosity is sated they go on their way. Josephine and Evelyn remain, separated by inches of the doorstep. "I was touched by your concern earlier," Evelyn tells her.

Ah, yes, more of her humor. "It is my duty to see that you are shown in the best light. On your knees, vomiting does not qualify."

"Not many think to complain when I'm on my knees." A line touches Josephine's forehead. Evelyn waves it away. "Mind telling me what  _is_  the best light, Lady Montilyet?"

Candlelight, of course. "I cannot claim to know. Certainly today was a fine start. Sealing the Breach, Your Worship. It was a… most extraordinary task. Well done."

"Does the Herald get a reward for her bravery?"

Josephine smiles faintly. "It would seem to me that the gratitude of Haven should more than suffice."

Her face is unreadable. "So I go off to seal the Breach and you coddle pampered nobles."

"It is a talent of mine—as you may well know." They stare at one another. Evelyn does something that is akin to shivering but Josephine feels no such cold. The day is warming nicely. Perhaps they've all had the terror drained out of them.

"Is that fun for you?"

Yes, it is. But it is nothing the Herald wants to hear. Josephine does not miss her judgment. "I am not altogether different from Varric, Your Worship. His stories are a touch more exciting, yes, but I am as much of a storyteller. What the people make of the Inquisition, what they make of  _you_ , has a great deal to do with the stories I tell."

"Really? I could have slept in this morning and you would have spun a story of my bravery sealing the Breach? Surely, it is not beyond the means of one so talented." She moves forward inches but it makes all the difference. The Herald is unhappy with her. It seems as if she is always unhappy with her. What would it take to give her any pleasure? She must not dwell on it. "The cold woke me this morning. I started a fire but maybe I should have crawled into bed and under the sheets."

Ah, so that was her doing. She cannot imagine it but telling herself not to think it only makes the image manifest: the Herald lifting the sheet of the bed, sliding in beside her. Josephine smiles at her. "I do not know to what you refer." They cannot talk of it. They will not talk of it. The Herald's fingers light on the back of her neck again. Josephine keeps herself tense. She cannot melt into that touch. She will not push her into the cabin. "Perhaps in time you'll find such courage."

"I can't tell if you're encouraging me or just angry."

Neither can Josephine. Maybe both. She did not enjoy her time as a bard. Well… she did until one night but she has always enjoyed the Game. She says. "Let me go, Herald." And she does.

* * *

 

Everyone in Haven is smiling. Everyone is happy.  _She's_  happy. For once she doesn't resent them. Maybe she did do something special. She moves through the crowds, listening to the lively music, watching them dance and kiss, celebrate. It can't get madder than closing the Breach. Maybe she can relax for once.

The advisors are out, mingling with the residents. Josephine and Cullen talk amongst themselves, Josephine's eyes skirting to her every now and then. Evelyn doesn't know what to make of the woman. She's… confusing. Even Seggrit has shown more gratitude. It isn't as if she bloody sealed the Breach to impress her but she must know she's the only reason she remained.  _You don't need her thanks. You did the right thing. That's enough._  Stupid diplomats.

"You're frowning again," Cassandra steps next to her. "I thought you'd be enjoying the celebration. It was well earned."

"I am." She's surprised she means it. "I—thank you for going with me. I'm not sure I would have made it if not for you."

"Oh. Well. I am sure you would have been fine. But yes. You are welcome."

Evelyn takes a deep breath. Cassandra  _is_  a noble but not the normal sort. She seems to thrive on defying convention. Evelyn thinks of her less these days and more of the ambassador, the ever, never endingly frustrating, ambassador, but she ought to focus her attentions on the ones that matter. She's sealed the Breach. The Maker gave her this mark. She's worth something. She can make something of herself, be worthy of a woman like Cassandra. "How about a dance?"

"No."

"Ouch. At least think about it?"

"No. I do not dance."

"I'll bet you're great. Come on. I sealed the Breach. Don't I get something?"

Cassandra looks at her warily. "It's true… still, no."

"Pretty please?" Now it's Cassandra's turn to take a breath. Oh, Maker. She knows that look. Evelyn looks away, turns away. Blast. Everything was going so well and now she's gone and screwed it up. "Forget it."

Cassandra takes her arm fiercely before she can get away. "Evelyn—" Oh. Shit. Her face burns and though they're surrounded, Cassandra speaks softly enough so that only she can hear. "I am not… completely blind to your… flirtations. And perhaps I only flatter myself—but if you have intentions… hopes for me—for us—I would not have you falsely hold on to those hopes. You are my friend and the Herald—and a woman." The air burns in her lungs. Her face is going to melt. She catches Josephine's eyes and resents her. Her stomach feels as if it's been stuffed with bricks. "Herald—" Maker she's strong. Shouldn't they be close to evenly matched? Or maybe all the strength has gone out of her. Still, she tries to get away and Cassandra will not let her. "I hope this does not come between us. I hope that this does not take away from this day or your victory. You have done a remarkable thing. You should be proud."

"It's all right, Cassandra." But Evelyn can't look at her. "Just please let me go."

Cassandra lets her go and Evelyn walks, without looking back. She sighs. That was… embarrassing. And disappointing. She needs a drink. Or a book. Or to be alone with both, she isn't sure. Everyone's looking at her and she smiles and waves, nearly has the tavern door slam into her face when it's kicked open. Sera. "Herald!" The elf is quick and somehow she manages to jump onto her back, hands over her eyes. "Good job with the Breachy bit. The gingy tavern keep was looking for you," she purrs in her ear, "time to go flick your wrist at another breach, yeah?"

She tries to push at her spindly arms and legs but Sera's tenacious. "Get off."

"That's the point, innit?" Evelyn still isn't sure what to make of Sera. Is she likable or unbearable? Sera slips off and slams a hand into Evelyn's chestplate while she thinks on it. "Well, don't be grumpy about it. Free sex, Herald," she winks and saunters off.

She doesn't want free sex. Not with Flissa, anyway. Still, she enters the tavern. It's only the two of them. "Out of ale?"

"We brought out most of the barrels for the celebration today," Flissa wipes down a table. "Lady Montilyet's instructions." Ah, of course. "I heard what you did. I've been trying to find a moment to come see you."

Evelyn smiles faintly. At least someone wants to see her. "That's…" sweet, she supposes. "Well, here I am." Flissa sets down the towel and comes over, wrapping her arms around Evelyn's neck. Evelyn tenses and finds it a difficult task to keep her eyes on her. She can't be with noble women and commoners only want something. Flissa wants the Herald. Evelyn wanted a warm body. And yet… Flissa appears sincere, if not a little eager and nervous. Keep it in the Inquisition, Josephine said. Josephine who must lie to her advisors. Her hands were soft, warm, firm as she pulled her back to her cabin the night prior.  _Come with me, I beg you. We'll spend the night in my cabin. The two of us._  Why did she stay? Why did she wait?

"Are you all right?" Flissa meets her eyes with a brutal sort of sincerity. "You seem distracted. What are you thinking of?"

"No one." A wince. "Nothing, I mean."

Flissa lifts on her tip toes and kisses her. Evelyn is unresponsive. She feels so tired. Flissa persists until Evelyn's lips part. It's difficult to relax. She thinks of Cassandra and Josephine. Are they satisfied now? Pleased with her? No, she doesn't think so. Maker, she just wants to sleep. A bell clangs. Evelyn pulls away. It's the distress call.

"Something's happening," Flissa says worriedly. She looks at her as if she can fix it.

Oh. Because that's her job. She blinks, dazed. "Um. Wait here, all right? I'll go see what's happening. I'm sure it's nothing." But she steps outside and the day has grown dark too suddenly. Everyone's shouting, screaming, running. Evelyn walks briskly, people slamming into her as they run in the opposite direction. The advisors are at the gates waiting for her. Her legs are weak, the breath tight in her chest. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

* * *

 

The dragon roars and Josephine is knocked back by a powerful gust of wind, slamming into the stone walls, momentarily disoriented. They are under attack. Maker. She thought Haven was safe. It is removed. They have gathered powerful allies and yet this… Calpernia is here, along with some Elder One, a dragon. It is too much.

There is chaos everywhere. "Lady Ambassador!" One of the Inquisition guards shouts. He runs towards her and then there's a wave of heat and then hot charred snow blowing along her cheeks, leaving a sooty film over her skin. Other guards shout and there's another flush of scorching warmth. Here and then gone. Black snow. No. Not snow. Not snow. Ashes. Ashes. Her mouth parts, dry, words gone, for a moment, everything gone, just a husk as her fingers touch scorching ground and bone. She makes a sound, not quite a scream, not even a yelp, a withdrawal, a sharp inhale and ash is in her mouth.

Tears spring to her eyes. No. No. Maker. Everywhere there is fighting, templars clashing with the mages she and Leliana fought to ally with. It is not only the beast reducing their men and women to ashes. Haven is on fire. The mages are so angry. What can she do here? When things have pressed in this fashion what can she do?

Gather the people. Get them to the chantry. Gather the people. Get them to the chantry. She must move, she must move, she cannot move. A mage sees her, hair like fire, eyes black as night. She lifts her stave and then the stave falls away, along with the arm attached to it. A fountain of blood, a wrenching scream and she collapses dead.

The Herald moves to her, lowering her sword, light in the dark, illuminated by fire, stunning and bright, a beacon. Andraste must have sent her. Andraste  _must_  have sent her. Josephine did not do wrong. She has preserved the Herald the only way she knew how. She will lie. She will do what it takes until she becomes what she is meant to. Evelyn kneels before her. "Are you all right?" Josephine's hands are buried in ashes. "Hey, hey, look at me." It's difficult. The ashes are still warm, her hands hot. "Josephine."

"The—the beast—this was— this was Ser Matthias—"

"We have to get you to the chantry."

"He was just here—he was—I fell—I fell and he came towards me—that's—the beast—if I had not fallen—" Other voices, telling them the Herald must move. Flissa stands behind the Herald with Cassandra, Varric and Sera. Her clothes look as if they were eaten by fire. Her hair frazzled, as if burned. "Are you all right?" Josephine asks Flissa.

"Josephine, you have to get up. You have to get up," Evelyn drags her to her feet. "I know you've seen something terrible and I'm sorry but we have to move to the chantry, all right? Haven is finished. We have to go." So much ash. So much fire. The Herald takes her face in her hands and though everything is mad and nothing makes sense, Josephine thinks the woman will kiss her. "I will make your word honorable, I swear it," she whispers, "but we must go. Pull it together."

A faint nod and they move. It seems ages until they make it to the chantry. Everything is lost. So many dead bodies, mages, templars, refugees, soldiers, all deaths tragic.

Everything in the chantry happens in a blur. Chancellor Roderick has been injured by venatori but he knows a path. This Elder One wants the Herald. Josephine is in a fog as arguments are made, as refugees scatter past her but she holds on to one thing. The Herald will go alone to set the last trebuchet towards Haven. The Herald will die so they might live.

A vow to her, a condemnation of death. She sees the Herald's knees falter as she promises to face the Elder One, to face the beast. Josephine cannot speak, only wishes that the Herald would turn and face her—that she had something of worth, of promise to say but what are words to action? What are words worth on a night like this?

The doors to the chantry open and Evelyn walks into the night without a look back. Josephine is left with the taste of death on her tongue.

* * *

 

It's a dragon, it's a dragon, it's a fucking dragon, shit shit shit shit shit _shit **shit**_. The dragon bellows, its teeth as half as tall as she is, sending spittle, like buckets of slime over her. Her ears ring, sound becomes distant. She crawls back, turns to see the figure walking through the fire. Maker, what is that? Maker, Maker, Maker, Andraste, what the Void is that?

A magister in robes? Twice as tall as she. It does not fall to fire. The courage she held before is shattered, draining out of her as quickly as wine from smashed glass. She can't breathe. She can't breathe. The air comes in and out of her, desperate and she's left disoriented.  _Get up. Get up. Get up._ This is Josephine's fault. This is Josephine's fault. Squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn't want to see. She should have run. She's going to die. She's going to die. They're all going to die but she'll die more violently.  _Breathe._ She can't breathe. _Breathe._ How? What the Void is this thing? Why does it want her? What was she thinking? She should have run.

"Pretender." The word leaves her cold, frozen. Pretender. It calls her. It knows her. It  _knows_  her. Another sharp breath and she manages to get to her feet, the dragon snorting hot air on her. The creature comes closer, flesh draped over muscle, armor fused in flesh. Maker, what is that thing? "You toy with forces beyond your ken no more."

It wants to talk? The dragon's footsteps shake the ground, rendering her unsteady. She searches the sky but there's no flare. It's not time. Maker, how much longer will she have to survive until they're all safe? "What are you? What do you want?" The words are flimsy and small but he hears her.

"Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are. What I was. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus. You will kneel."

_Kneel. Just kneel. Maybe it'll go away. Maybe it'll leave you alone._ Her knees are weak. She doesn't kneel. "Why are you here? You haven't even asked for anything."

"I ask for nothing because it is not in your power to give." He has an orb. What is it? It doesn't matter. Light shoots out of it and her arm goes afire, her nerves rebelling, shooting excruciating pain through her so vivid it knocks her to her knees. She can't think. She can hardly breathe. He is indifferent. "But that will not stop me. I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now. It is your fault, Herald. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning and instead of dying you stole its purpose. I do not know how you survived but what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens." She hears that, above everything, beyond the pain twisting inside of her like needles. Her heart stops and the air goes out of her. She feels nothing. Her father was right. She is no Herald. This is some accident. Some joke. She thought… Why did she think that…? The dragon moves around her, taunting, its teeth scratching along her armor, piercing it through like a wild animal toying with its prey. She's not the Herald of Andraste. She's not the Herald of Andraste. She's nothing. "And you used the Anchor to undo my work. The gall." He steps closer, his long fingers like scythes touching beneath her chin, digging and drawing blood, lifting her face.

His skin is stretched, thick like old leather. His smell fills her nostrils, blood, dirt, something old. "The Breach is gone!" She yells at him through gritted teeth. "I never wanted this! Take it!"

He chuckles. "Mortals have always cried thus. Praise me, for I would end the silence that answers." She tries to get away but he lifts her, far above as if she were nothing. Her arm pops out of its socket and she screams. He smiles. "I once breached the Fade in the name of another to serve the old gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption, dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused, much as you are, Herald. I despaired but no more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion with it Tevinter and correct this blighted world. Beg that I succeed for I have seen the throne of the gods and it was empty." He hurls her and she flies, landing brutally against the trebuchet. There is a longsword near and he approaches. Her right arm hangs limply at her side, tears bead her eyes, her head ringing from the blow it took. Her head throbs and she feels something hot trickling down her neck. "The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling. So be it. I will begin again, find a way to give this world, the nation and god it requires." There's a flare in the distance. A light. They've made it. The people of Haven are safe. It's time then. She must set the trebuchet off on Haven. She must bury them both. Her heart beats wildly. "And you. I will not suffer a rival. You must die."

She scrambles to her feet, picking up the longsword. "So it would seem," perspiration runs down her face. Maker. This is it. She could abandon the plan and run. But the very thought is appalling.  _Why not surrender and pledge your life to him if living is so fucking important?_ She made a promise. She must hold on to that promise. She must hold on to one, sometime. Pretender. She will be the pretender. She always knew she wasn't chosen. She must act as if she were. Even if she's nothing and irrelevant. Even if she dies in a bloody avalanche. "But I will not go alone." She kicks the sling of the trebuchet loose.

The dragon howls and for an instant, terror paints Corypheus' face. She may not be the Herald but he is no god. No god should fear. The mountains growl, the ground trembles. She throws the sword and runs on weak legs. She can't make it. She won't make it. She wants to make it.

A force crashes into her and she falls into the darkness, slamming into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

The mountain falls and the Herald with it. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed my anguished cries as they see the beast rise into the sky and Haven buried in an avalanche of snow, trees, rocks.

Josephine stares, her throat dry. They are safe. They are safe and the Herald is… The advisors are pale. Cullen curls and uncurls his fingers. "We all knew it was a long shot," he says before turning away, returning to the camp where men and women are trying to set up tents despite the bitter winds and cold.

"We don't know that she's gone," Cassandra's voice is weak and irrationally hopeful. "The Maker chose her—the Maker—"

"Will you stop it?" Leliana hisses. "You and your belief. How I envy you. I believed once. But what does the Maker give us that He does not take? She's gone, Cassandra. The Herald is dead. Get used to it."

Cassandra shakes her head. "Leliana—"

"No," she stalks off into the darkness.

Josephine should go after her. But she can't move. She keeps looking off into the distance but all she sees is the light that burned in Haven, the fires that roared, are now extinguished. The Herald lives. She must live. Josephine can't think, focus. It is so bitterly cold. She makes herself move, incapable of any real thought. She follows the footprints in the snow until she comes to Leliana, at the edge of camp staring into nothing. "We're finished, Josie."

"No, we're not. Please don't say such things." Please, not now. She needs her now. She needs somebody to tell her that everything will be all right. Things cannot end this way. They cannot end before they have begun. Were they so filled with pride that they could not stand their first big trial? Was the Herald truly so weak? No. Josephine has seen her fight, move, has seen her courage, despite how she protests that she has it. She was steady earlier, saving her from that apostate, she was calm and patient when another might have simply slapped sense into her.  _I will make your word honorable, I swear it._  Josephine's eyes sting. "The Herald is not gone."

"How can you believe that? You saw a mountain fall on her. Maker, you're as naïve as Cassandra. You should know better."

"If the Herald was truly sent by Andraste, she will not have perished." But she doesn't know if she believes it or if she's only keeping up appearances. She can say what she will until others have means to refute her. "The people are looking to us, now more than ever. We cannot squabble. We cannot doubt. It will tear us apart. We must believe. We must."

Leliana sighs. "I don't know what to believe anymore. What will we do without her?" Her voice is low. "If those rifts aren't sealed will they continue to spread? Demons will infest this world." She looks at her. "Are you all right?" How can she ask? Why does she ask? Leliana's gaze is piercing. "I understand you had a close brush with that archdemon."

Josephine blinks. Oh. Yes. The dragon. She'd forgotten. "I am… alive." That is more than others from Haven can claim. "It has been a long day."

Leliana clucks softly. "My poor Josie. Here I am, going on…" she wraps her arms around her and Josephine closes her eyes, embraces her just as tightly. "No matter what comes, we will find a way to move forward. We have no other choice. Perhaps the Herald did survive. She survived the Conclave, after all…"

But Josephine thinks Leliana is only placating her. Hours pass and people cry for the Herald. They cry for their loved ones who died, who are dying, for their pain when there aren't enough healers and no potions, when hunger seizes their stomachs. Their tears freeze on their faces as they erect tents and crowd around small campfires, desperate to get warm, knowing that the fire cannot touch the cold that has settled inside them. The valley shields them from some of the winds but not all, the valley cannot shield them from what they have seen. The archdemon and the Elder One are loose. Sinking Haven didn't stop them. If they return, with no Herald… they will stand no chance. They will simply die.

She finds Flissa huddled next to a wagon and sits beside her. Her face is streaked with dark smudges. Smoke from earlier. What a grisly celebration. They were not even allotted a half dozen hours of peace and happiness. Perhaps Flissa is taking the Herald's passing particularly difficult. Josephine fights with herself. The Herald's dead. She's not dead. Josephine forces a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm cold. Everyone's cold. And hungry." She wraps her arms fiercely around her knees and lays her head down. "Did you see that? A mountain just fell on top of her. She's dead. She's dead so we could live."

Yes, the Herald did what was asked. They gave her a title she didn't want and only asked for her life as payment. "We do not know she has perished, Flissa. Take heart."

"But did you see it? A mountain, a whole mountain and that dragon—if it didn't just eat her. My heart can't take this. It's too much. All of this is too much."

Josephine flicks her eyes to her, nails digging slightly into her palms. That's all it takes for her to give up on Evelyn Trevelyan? A mountain and a dragon. Does she know her? She cannot if she doubts her perseverance. Maybe she's drunk too much ale. To think that the Herald bedded this woman. She does not deserve her. But no. She is being sentimental. Did Josephine not cement before the advisors and the crowd gathered at the gates during the attack, her doubt over the Herald's commitment by repeating plainly that the Herald would not run, would not abandon Haven, would do everything that was necessary? Yes, her own contribution to the war effort. She does not wield daggers, swords or magic, only words and guilt, a gaze as piercing as any knife.

"The Herald can survive that and more," she says. "Haven may be lost but most of us survived. The Inquisition isn't over. The Herald will return…" Will she? "And when she returns you will breathe. You will tell her—how grateful you are that she is with us all again."  _Does the Herald get a reward for her bravery?_  Josephine brushed the question away. What sort of reward did the Herald seek? Not coin. She would not ask for coin. Josephine briefly imagines bringing her lips to the other woman's and buries the thought. She was angry and curt this morning and now the Herald is dead. Now she can never make amends, she who sentenced her to death.  _She's not dead._

"I don't think the Herald will care to hear my opinion. What did she say to you earlier, at Haven?" A little heaving of breath. "She's never held me like that."

Josephine looks at her but gets to her feet. People are shouting. A roar is rippling through the crowd and people are crying again, clapping. Josephine's heart leaps to her chest and sees only a glimpse, Cullen carrying her, limp, unconscious and bloodied in his arms. Josephine pushes through the crowd, tries to get a better view. Leliana takes her arm before she follows into the tent. "I want to see her," Josephine says. She hasn't quite growled the words but they are low and demanding.

"She's not doing well and you're no healer. I'm sorry. You'll have to wait."

* * *

 

They let her in at last and Josephine breathes to see her.

The Herald is stretched out on a thin cot, struggling to get to a sitting. Josephine hurries over, kneeling on the rocky ground and wrapping an arm around her waist to assist her. The Herald breathes her protests. "I am not one to be trifled with, Herald. Allow me to aid you. It is the least I can do." And with a small frown, a smaller nod, she acquiesces. She is not so heavy as Josephine anticipated. Perhaps it is only the absence of armor, the air, the blood and sweat the Elder One took from her.

Her face is rosy, the hand Josephine touches, hot to the touch. A fever, Mother Giselle said and they are not quite finished. Cassandra and Cullen have described the Herald as being 'difficult'. Her arm is out of place and she will not allow the others to set it.

"Are you all right?" The words come somewhere deep within from the Herald, they seem buried and far away. Josephine dares her fingers over her hand, over her arm, she's real. She's alive. The Herald looks at her. Is she seeing double? Can she see her at all? "There's. There's blood and soot on your face."

Is there? The Herald touches her face and Josephine closes her eyes, takes a breath and leans into the contact. A rustling of the tent, breeze, or person, she doesn't know, and Josephine withdraws from her touch. "I am quite well, Herald, all thanks to you." Josephine looks up at Evelyn who looks small and miserable, pained, and licks her lips. "I… You had us all so frightened."

"Did I? You should have seen me. I didn't falter for even a moment." She laughs, false and pained.

_You did not run._ "I am happy you returned to us."

"I made a foolish promise to a beautiful woman. I'm afraid I'm stuck, a servant to her whims."

Josephine swallows and the tent flaps open. Leliana. "Herald. You are to be resting. Is Lady Montilyet drilling you with manners of proper decorum?"

"She tries but some pupils are resistant to learning."

"Only when their teachers coddle them," Leliana sits on the cot beside the Herald. Josephine narrows her eyes on the redhead. "I understand this Elder One dislocated your arm. Cullen and Cassandra want to give you more time to rest but this cannot delay. We have few mages and they are all occupied. It will continue to swell and become more difficult to set. Come," she grabs her arm, "this happens now. Josie, do tell her to be quiet."

"What?" The Herald is somewhat alert now, grimacing as Leliana takes her arm.

"I am afraid there is a large crowd surrounding this tent," Josephine informs her.

"Those who doubted you as the Herald, doubt no more," Leliana says. "You did a worthy thing, Lady Trevelyan. But we must keep up appearances. If they hear you pained, if they see you bloodied, they will think you mortal."

"I  _am_ mortal."

Leliana smiles. "We don't have to tell them that. It will only take a moment."

Josephine brings a hand over the Herald's mouth, moving automatically. She's done this before, too. "I am sorry, my lady." Leliana jerks Evelyn's limp arm upwards. Evelyn flails, her left arm striking painfully into Josephine's stomach, the pain is so severe Evelyn doesn't seem to know that she's even done it. Her scream is muffled by Josephine's hand. Another jerk by Leliana and the Herald folds over, teeth bared, sinking unwittingly into the flesh of Josephine's palm. Josephine bites her tongue, mutters a soft cry, forcing herself to keep her hand where it is, no matter how desperately she wishes to pull it away.

It seems an eternity before Leliana finishes but she knows it's only minutes at most. Evelyn leans her forehead into Josephine's shoulder, her mouth still covered by Josephine's hand. Her palm is slick and hot, she doesn't know if it's the Herald's breath or blood but their breathing is unsteady. Leliana slings Evelyn's arm, her eyes skirting over the two before she finishes, telling them Solas will be by later to provide some additional healing. Mercifully, she leaves them.

The Herald does not pull away from her nor does Josephine push her away. For minutes it seems that breathing is all they are capable of. Josephine thinks of her family, of Antivans, kissing cheeks in greeting, giving ferocious hugs after reuniting after only hours, tactile, using such methods to communicate support and share in triumphs. Lady Trevelyan's contact with her father was awkward, tense. Has physical contact for her ever meant anything not tied to pleasure? It is difficult for Josephine to not stroke her back. However she may want to, she must not. No matter how innocent it may be, she must not.

Still, they must separate. Josephine touches her shoulder carefully and eases her back onto the cot. It is thin, old, uncomfortable. If only there were something suitable for her. The Herald is hot to the touch. Josephine knows she cannot delay much longer. The ambassador spending so much time with the Herald makes little sense. She is alive. That is all that matters. She knows that, has touched her, felt her. She lives.

"Did everyone make it?" Evelyn asks as Josephine stands, ready to depart. Her voice is weak. They will have to melt some water for her. No doubt she is dehydrated.

"Most, Your Worship." She does not know where they will go. Surely they will lose more before they arrive at their next destination. She does not know of any nearby town, haven, that is able to take an influx of people, a land where they might be kept safe, where they can resume some semblance of life. But that is nothing the Herald need know right now.

"Your hand is bleeding."

Josephine looks at it, sees the small marks on her palm, like stitches, the mark of Trevelyan's bite. She smiles wanly. "It appears you are not all bark after all, Your Worship." She doesn't know whether it should reassure her. Josephine leaves her, thumb brushing over the wound on her palm. She hardly noticed the pain when Evelyn bit into her. She wonders if it will scar.


	7. Attrition

Some have lost their fingers. Others have patches of blackened skin, numb and dead from the cold. The pounds come off them as they travel from first light until sunset, stopping only to set up camp for the approaching, chilly nights. There's no food, not enough blankets to go around. When it becomes too much, they rest for days, the villagers recuperating while the hunters go out, attempting to catch some food. They find thin hares, thanks to Sera's arrows, endless, true. Not near enough what they need.

Solas assures her this is the way but Evelyn worries. Every day they move forward they do so with less people. Some starve, others die of cold and exhaustion, some from injuries suffered during the attack on Haven. They've lost healers. Dorian, Solas and Vivienne do what they can but they don't sleep. Everyone is irritable. Everyone moves at a lethargic pace.

Evelyn's stomach growls constantly until enough time passes and she forgets hunger, the sensation replaced by a heavy, empty ache. Some nights she sleeps beside Flissa though neither woman attempts physical contact save for drawing close and stealing warmth. They're placeholders for fires, for others.

Evelyn loses track of days. "When will we get there?" Flissa asks after they've stopped for the night.

'There' she says. Skyhold. Evelyn doesn't know that Skyhold exists. All she has is desperate hope that dwindles by the day. "Soon," she says. For who knows how long she has been smiling until her lips split and bleed. Flissa's eyes are glazed, her lips dry and cracked. Everyone is similarly affected. Evelyn cautiously lifts an arm and puts it around her shoulders but Flissa doesn't appear to notice.

Evelyn watches the townspeople walk through their temporary camp like lost spirits. Josephine wears thin, violet gloves, mere decoration in these temperatures. Their eyes catch, along with Evelyn's breath. Josephine looks away, moving on. Evelyn removes her arm from Flissa's shoulders. Flissa doesn't notice, maybe doesn't care.

* * *

 

Josephine keeps a list of the known dead. Those lost in Haven, those lost on the journey forward. Their numbers shrink and hope seems lost. Her ink freezes and she spends nights by the campfires warming it, taking notes by the light. Cullen and Leliana sit beside her, crafting plans, trying to control an impossible situation, speaking in whispers of what will happen should Corypheus return. They make bold plans but all know and none speak that what happens when Corypheus returns is death.

Mother Giselle tells her the people of Haven believe they follow a path similar to Andraste's Exalted March and they bear it for that reason. Mother Giselle tells Leliana that the Herald is troubled by the events in Haven—though there must be something deeper there for none have gone untouched by the tragedy. As for the Herald… she  _appears_  in good spirits. She wanders through the camp talking to people. The way their faces light up to see the Herald speak personally to them… Josephine isn't sure if they are right to be grateful or foolish to want the company of Evelyn Trevelyan… And still, she is performing her duty admirably.

Josephine clenches her fingers, her palm aching, red seeping through the violet gloves, her own mark in her own hand, a personal Anchor. She keeps it covered and remembers the Herald's bite.

Blackwall lumbers over. He doesn't seem any worse for wear despite the circumstances. They speak of their concerns, the cold, the absence of food, the danger Corypheus poses. He maintains a respectful distance from her and makes sure to bring her scraps of food, little curiosities left behind by travelers long ago. He finds an old leather bound journal.  _I know how you like your paper, my lady._  Ah, yes. He is very kind. Josephine wonders what he looks like beneath that beard, beneath the endearing fumbling.

Leliana walks by, a faint smile on her pale face, a small shake of her head. She was the one who insisted they recruit the grey warden. They may have all disappeared but this one is here and courageous. Courage goes a long way and most importantly, Josephine does not find herself questioning his motives. He is welcome company for the days have been long. The nights as long, only colder. She does not sleep. She dreams of ash, soot, fire and a roaring.

She attends to the nobles who visited Haven and survived, ensures that they have their needs met—the best they can, under the circumstances. She is aware of the Herald, from the corner of her eye, arms crossed and silently judging. Josephine finishes with the Van Markhams and goes to her. They have spoken little since the attack on Haven. She has needed to attend to the casualties, their inventory, Leliana and Cullen, who hold their heads high but are troubled and worried.

"Lady Trevelyan," Josephine's teeth chatter despite how she tries not to shake. "The Van Markhams have remarked that you have not taken it upon yourself to visit them."

"What of it?" The Herald searches through a sack filled with clothing. Josephine peeks closer and sees gloves, hats, ratty blankets, boots. She finds what she's looking for, black gloves, thick and unwieldy and extends them to Josephine. When she doesn't take them, Evelyn frowns. "They're for you."

"Where did you get these?" The Herald says nothing. " _Where?_ "

"Where do you think I've been going while you sit around scribbling notes?"

Scribbling notes. That's unfair. Still… Josephine can't say she'd given it too much thought. Cullen, Blackwall, Lady Trevelyan and Iron Bull sometimes leave early in the morning and move back towards the way they came. Now that she looks at the gloves more closely, she detects initials: AS. They still have to account for everyone who has been lost but a handful of names spring to mind, individuals she can't recall seeing. Josephine hadn't thought she could go colder. The Herald looks uncomfortable but doesn't withdraw them. "Thank you. But I cannot accept." The Herald fixes her with a dubious look. "I am fine."

"You  _aren't_  fine. I see you blowing on your hands all the time. You're cold."

Has she noticed? Does she watch her? Josephine thought she was being discrete. "We are all cold. I am sure there is another that has greater need."

"You priss." Josephine thinks Lady Trevelyan would spit the words if she weren't so tired. "Bloody freeze, then." Josephine bites the inside of her lip but doesn't look away. Were the gloves meant as some peace offering? A kind gesture? Does she see it as a rejection? The Herald stands, hitching the bag over her shoulder, grimacing. The injury hasn't quite healed despite the necessary cold. She has been unable to rest it. "Do you think I like going through bodies, ambassador? Pillaging like some grave robber? Do you think that feels good? Do you think that's how I like to start my day?" She scoffs. "What's it all for?"

She walks away before Josephine can answer. She wishes she'd taken the gloves but worries about the implications, the strength of her message if she's donned in the materials of those who have perished. Or, she wonders, if she is only troubled by the events that have transpired and is hesitant to take on additional reminders. She flushes with shame, grateful, at least, for the brief window of warmth.

* * *

 

"Really, my dear, I think you ought to be kind to our darling ambassador."

Vivienne has exchanged her menacing hat for a hooded scarf. Even in the icy depths she looks fit for Orlesian court. Evelyn glances at her own fingers, dry, red and cracking. Vivienne has always been warm to her. Her warmth is not altogether different from Brynn's. Blackwall thinks she's a snake. Evelyn isn't sure she disagrees. She sighs, touching her nose though she can't feel it outside of a faint tingling. "I wasn't aware I had been unkind." Nor has she any wish to be.

"Truly? It might do you  _some_  good to consider it. She does not have an enviable task. You have quite the reputation."

"You're from Ostwick."

"I am not  _from_  Ostwick. I was there  _briefly_  before I transferred to Montsimmard.  _You_  on the other hand  _did_  spend some time at the Ostwick circle. We missed each other. I transferred out rather young and I do believe that you did not… overstay." She narrows her eyes. "No matter your past, my dear, you must lift your head high and not let it touch you."

She's heard Vivienne and Sera bicker. The women she travels with are shrouded in mystery. Where is Sera from? The elf doesn't seem to care. Vivienne wields her own reputation like a blade but whatever she was before she became Madame de Fer, Evelyn doesn't know. The woman is intimidating. She smiles warmly at Evelyn when she reluctantly approaches her and was pleased when she extended the templars an alliance. However, Evelyn has caught the court enchanter's gaze unexpectedly and has seen disapproval and contempt in her eyes. "Is that what you do? Lift your head high? Not let it touch you?"

Vivienne smiles. "You compare us. How  _darling_. But we're letting the issue slip away. The ambassador is a player of the Game." Evelyn frowns. She can't say she didn't know or suspect, both, but it isn't something she wants to think of. "I have no doubt that she will do her due diligence and present you in the most favorable light but do not make it difficult for her. The templars have noticed how you shy away from them. Some wonder if you're a mage sympathizer—and who can blame them?"

"You're a mage."

"I am aware."

"How can you turn against your own people?" She was taught and raised to fear magic. Are mages the reason the Golden City was lost? Are they the real reason the Blight began? It's what the chantry teaches. Yet, the mages in the Circle never seemed particularly threatening. Frightened, skittish around templars, perhaps. Sometimes soft and warm. She blinks, not wanting to think of it. She had to cut Grand Enchanter Fiona down. All those mages in Redcliffe, killed in Haven. Why did they side with Corypheus? She refuses to believe mages are soulless, hateful. If they're angry for being leashed, she doesn't blame them. She sympathizes. Yet, the templars have been helpful. They've been good, even if she's afraid to be near them, even if she worries they see her. Why did it have to be one or the other? Why couldn't she have allied with both?  _Because you're a Trevelyan_. "Everyone should be free."

"Not everyone. Mages are dangerous, Evelyn. You must know.  ** _You_**  of all  ** _must_**  know this. It is the role of the templar to safeguard them from themselves, from others. Not to mention the considerable danger they pose to the rest of the population."

She's heard this sort of tirade before. "So you become an abomination, I stop you."

Vivienne's smile is full and Evelyn withers under it. "You're hardly a templar. You may be the Herald, Evelyn but… let's just say, I hope there are more experienced templars on hand should such a tragedy occur. I fear you are a touch too sentimental to do what must be done."

She's too tired to have this conversation. Too hungry. Too cold. In any case, she's uncertain that she could outsmart Vivienne even under the best circumstances. "What does any of this have to do with the ambassador?"

"The people's eyes are always on you, my dear. Something Josephine is keenly aware of. You must never let them see you in an unfavorable light. You can imagine the sorts of things I must attend to and yet I see you behave in unworthy ways. Imagine these people, with no status, with nothing to do but  _gossip_ , who look up to you as the Herald. They will scrutinize your every action. Do not skulk around the templars as if they will bite you. You gave them this alliance. They are in your debt and floundering for leadership. Use it. Mold them into what the Inquisition needs. Or into what you want. You have that power. You would be a fool to squander it."

Evelyn doesn't know what power she speaks of. They've been wandering the mountains for weeks now. The only power she has was given to her by an Elder One; a darkspawn magister. How does she feel powerful when her stomach is concaving? She is the byproduct of corruption. Pretender, he called her. This is all bullshit. She shouldn't be here. None of this should be happening. What she wouldn't give for her oversized bed, food and wine, baths and silks, women attending to her. She wonders if she imagined her tongue pressed to Josephine's palm, the heat of her hand squelching her cries. She was half mad with pain while Leliana set the shoulder right.

Vivienne continues. "But you mustn't forget the nobility. Some are trapped here because they came to lend their support. You have kept them alive. They know that. They are no better or worse than the other citizens of Haven simply because they have coin. Whatever your issue with nobility, overcome it. You must forget your notions of privilege and attend to them. This is a trial and they will spread word of you as soon as we get to our destination."

Lovely. Not only do the advisors and Cassandra order her about, but Vivienne sees fit to do the same. "How high should I jump, Vivienne?"

"As high as you must so they never think to question you again." They look to the side as a man falls over onto his side, face half buried in the snow, still. "Go to him. He won't make it, I can tell even from here, but it's important to always put on a show. Go, before they see you gawking, doing nothing."

Evelyn goes but he's dead before she gets to him.

* * *

 

Cullen barges into the tent. "We have a problem." He stops when he sees only Josephine, momentarily flustered before regaining himself. Josephine pulls her legs close, moving her stacks of papers, the candle burning in the saucer. Cullen sits beside her, running a hand over his hair. It's getting longer and curlier. Josephine smiles gently. It must drive him crazy that he can't attend to his little rituals. Soon it will become unruly. "I thought Cassandra and Leliana were here."

What a cozy tent that would be. "Ah, no. They are with Mother Giselle, tending to those grieving their lost ones." Perhaps he hears the grimace in her voice for he mirrors it on his face. The battle at Haven has taken much out of the advisors. They have survived but it was a loss. Cullen blames himself. He is the commander of the armed forces. Perhaps with stronger leadership, a better plan… that sort of thing, no doubt keeps him up at night. Why else would he look so tired? The lack of lyrium isn't helping either, though he fares better than the other templars who have had their supply suddenly cut dry. Some have left in the night. Others linger in desperate hopes to get their next fix. "Shall I gather the advisors?"

"No. What I have to say will soon be known. Lady Trevelyan has been scouting north. I don't like it," he admits grudgingly, "I've caught her several times early morning and have had our men follow her. Now she has taken to going at night on her own. Maker knows what compels such foolishness."

Foolishness, Cullen says. Others might say bravery. Josephine wonders, cowardice? Is she trying to run? Would she, after Haven? The Herald has never struck her as a sullen woman and yet she has been since the events at Haven. When she isn't attending to others she appears lost and troubled. Josephine insisted she seal the Breach and be the Herald the Inquisition deserves. Does she think her duty done? Is she only trying to escape? "I take it you have some news of one of her ventures?" and she worries for what that news might be. "We must have our agents keep an eye on her. The Herald is too valuable to lose."

"It has been done. As for the problem… There are several rifts on our intended path."

"Rifts? Goodness. And she returned, unharmed?"

"She has. Rifts alone are cause for concern but there's something more. They won't open."

"I am partial to keeping them closed myself, Commander."

He smiles ruefully. "Were they to open she might seal them and our people could move past them without worry. But they won't open. They haven't." A grizzled sigh. "Lady Trevelyan has also taken it upon herself to look for alternate routes to move around them but there are none. We are near the crest of the mountain. An alternative route would require returning the way we came and finding something else. If there  _is_  a path, it could take weeks."

"We do not have weeks." She shakes her head. Weeks to go back and retread old ground, hoping there is a new path. They will starve to death. "Have you investigated the matter yourself?" It isn't that she thinks the Herald is lying but… "Perhaps there is something she has missed."

"I've looked into her claims. It checks out. I see no other option."

"The Breach  _was_  sealed… perhaps… it affected these rifts. Is it possible that when the Breach was sealed, those rifts that had not opened… remained closed?" Perhaps they'll stay that way. "Have you consulted Solas?"

"I have. I proposed the very theory. He supposes it's possible but thinks it a dangerous assumption. I agree." The tent flaps violently in the wind, snuffing the candle out. They sigh. "Unfortunately it appears as if there is no other way but forward." He rubs at the beard that has been steadily growing on his face.

"Let us pray they do not open."

"It may be our only option."

"If they should open, the Herald will seal them."

"I don't disagree but the timing could prove…" A shake of his head. "It's nothing I want to think about."

"If only we had the luxury." They must think of all the uncomfortable things and worry themselves over what might go wrong.

"I'll prepare the soldiers best I can for such an event. Maker forbid. Our circumstances aren't what they were. Everyone's fatigued. This has gone on too long. No one expected it would take so long to find somewhere,  _anywhere_." He looks at her. "I'm not sure what we should tell the people who came to us for safety. They'll have to walk past two rifts."

"They have suffered a great deal. They are frightened. The cold and what has occurred has made them numb to much. I am not certain how much more they can bear." She considers. "I suggest that Mother Giselle and our Herald lead them in some discussion of faith. We can harken back to the trials and tribulations Andraste endured. Those who are with us revere her, others want peace. They want to be part of something special. They will have a story they can tell for a lifetime."

He scoffs. "Those who survive." Yes. Those who survive. She thinks to tell him that they do not know that the rift will open but optimism feels like negligence. They sit in the darkness, listening to the whipping winds and voices carried sharply. "Tell me, ambassador, is this the excitement you were looking for when Leliana requested you join the Inquisition?"

Josephine laughs softly. "I cannot say that this is quite what I had in mind." She thought more nobles, more negotiations, less dragons and frigid nights. She knows why Cullen thought to join. Perhaps after the chaos of Kirkwall he wanted more than atonement. Order is important to such a man and both know the world has more need of it than ever. "But could anyone have imagined such things when the Inquisition began?"

"I knew it would be bloody. But archdemons… magister gods—that was unexpected." Perhaps all of them are surprised save for Leliana, who saw such things in the time she spent with the warden. "Are you a woman of faith, my lady?"

"Faith?"

"Leliana was a lay sister, the Left Hand of the Divine. And Cassandra, she was a Seeker, the Right Hand, she wanted to serve in the templars. But you—" She can only make the outline of his face in the darkness. "I am unsure of your motivations. Even those who are fervent believers have had their faith shaken. I was curious to your thoughts."

"I was raised in Antiva. As you may know, our people are quite dedicated." Yes. She was raised in Antiva. Certainly, many of the Antivan notions of gender came from what the chantry reveres in women: purity, femininity. But she studied in Val Royeaux. No matter the White Spire, the Grand Cathedral, her schooling was based on scientific discovery, progress, not belief. Games, not religion. Faith requires some notions of romance—and she does so love the idea of romance—yet she must be pragmatic—even if playing the Game requires throwing caution and reason to the wind. Val Royeaux taught her to be shrewd, to be clever, to adapt herself to the circumstance, to the situation, to the mark. She is a fervent believer when it is important to the individual she must interact with, when there is something needed from them. Other times… she is unsure. And yet here, more than ever, she must put forward the face of a believer. An ardent believer. She has been shaken. Near everything rests on the shoulders of the Herald. A woman who tried to run.  _The woman who has sealed the Breach, who saved you at Haven._  She touches the palm of her hand gingerly. How quickly ardor fades in the absence of the one who inspires it, in the approach of night.

"That isn't an answer."

"I … cannot say." The answer is more honest than she expected it to be. "However… with the things we have seen… the ways in which we have survived so much madness… how can I not believe?" Even as she is overcome with doubt. "I know we will all get through this." She knows no such thing. "Perhaps that is enough."

"That is …reassuring. I know it's a personal question. Thank you for answering. Now I must go and see to the soldiers. Prepare as best as we can. You'll see to Mother Giselle and the Herald—crafting that message to our people?"

"I will see it done."

He nods and leaves, Josephine reluctantly following, not eager to go into the night. The Herald sees them exit. Surprise touches her features but then they tighten and she keeps walking.

* * *

 

Cassandra snorts. "You're avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you." Only a little. Evelyn's pressing concern are the rifts. They glimmer above, in a too pale sky that's closer to white than blue. She rolls her shoulder gently. By the time Solas got to her the night Haven fell, they were both exhausted. He healed what he could with what little energy he had. She was grateful when he left, happy to turn on her side and sleep. But it hurts. And the rifts aren't gone. She thought, foolishly, that sealing the Breach would also seal the other rifts that had scattered over Thedas. "I don't like how far apart they are from one another."

Cassandra follows her gaze. The rifts aren't on top of one another. They are close enough, however, for them to easily be overrun by demons— and spread far enough away that fighting through the horde one rift might unleash to get to the other, might take considerable time. "It could be trouble," Cassandra agrees. "And you  _are_  avoiding me."

Evelyn lifts her arm to the first rift. There's no reaction but the aching of her nerves. There's nothing to hook on to. There's only sky. Maybe Corypheus screwed it up. What if she can never seal a rift again? What if the rift isn't the problem? What if  _she's_  the problem?

"Leliana tells me you're involved with Flissa."

Maker. Is there anyone who doesn't know? "Our spymaster is shit at keeping secrets."

Cassandra chuckles. "It is hardly a secret. Although I'll admit, it is difficult to imagine the two of you together."

"Why? Because we're women?" Cassandra makes a face at the words. "I do rather fancy aggressive warrior types but they don't fancy me in return." She puts a hand over her heart, fingers curling. "You never told me you had a reputation for being a heartbreaker. I could speak to Varric. It's never too late to start a new legend. Better than his tales of you busting balls, I dare say."

"I object." But Evelyn isn't sure to what. "If you want an aggressive warrior, try Iron Bull or Blackwall." Now it is Evelyn who tries to contain her expression. "It is surprising because… well. I do not see passion between you."

"Everyone's tired, Cassandra. No one's bloody passionate about anything right now."

"That is an excuse. You must know it."

Evelyn doesn't want to have this conversation, especially not with the woman whom she was hoping could feel something for her. But Cassandra won't ever feel anything for her, no matter how dashing Evelyn may pretend to be. The disappointment has waned considerably in a short period of time. Maybe it's only because there are more pressing matters at hand. "Flissa's…" A tavern keep. Hrm. "Nice."

"Be still my heart."

Evelyn cracks a grin, splitting her lip in the process. She dabs it with the tip of her tongue. Despite the awkwardness, she has missed spending time with her. "Are you a romantic?" Cassandra scoffs as if it were the most ridiculous thing she has ever heard. "I'm not. I was talking to Iron Bull. There's nothing I understand about the qunari," she grouses. And to the Void with the qun. "But… given my… circumstances—"

"Your circumstances?"

She doesn't want to explain. "I have to take my companionship where I can find it. I  _don't_  go to brothels. I don't have a person—who… you know, takes care of my 'tension'," stupid Josephine, "but. I don't know."

"So it is a sex thing."

She says it so bluntly. Evelyn flushes but it goes unnoticed. She has appeared perpetually flushed since they began climbing the frigid mountain. "You don't have to put it that way."

"But it is that way."

"Not really." They've slept together not even a handful of times and when they have it's been… routine, nothing passionate about it, no clothing coming away since the first time. Maybe they've just been cold. Her heart doesn't beat wildly. Her face doesn't flush. Her breath remains contained in her lungs. Which is probably best, given the altitude.

"Is that what you wanted from me? Sex?"

"Maker, no. I mean— _yes_  but no. You're… I mean, you're Cassandra Pentaghast. Right Hand of the Divine." Maybe she's been close to being in love before but she doesn't know that she ever got quite there. How would she know, anyway? Is it about… time or… meeting families? Is it about selflessness? Gifts? "It'd have been different. Better. It's not like that with Flissa. We're just having fun." Or pretending to.

"If she does not drive you wild, you should let her go. Herald or no, she deserves someone who is mad about her. Might I say that you are a cad for pursuing me while involved with her? You are a cad."

"I'm your cad." Cassandra makes a sound. "It's not like she wants me anyway. Do you know she never calls me by my name? It's always 'Herald'." They watch the people walk past them, stooped and heading towards the next checkpoint. Evelyn bites her tongue. They look tired and miserable. Some limp, others stumble. Her fingers clench and unclench. She smiles at them, uses their names when she can, pats their back. "Not much further," she says. She stands with Cassandra between the two rifts. People have slowly been streaming by for the past few hours. She sniffles, fingers wrapped around the hilt of the greatsword. Templars line the path, careful to not slip backward and fall away from the mountain. The path is narrow.

"If I might ask, what did you like about me? I am not like Josephine."

"What does that mean?" What does Josephine have to do with anything?

Cassandra arches her eyebrows. "You must know what I mean. Stylish dresses, feminine and soft spoken. Beautiful." Evelyn thinks to dispute it but why bother. She remembers a vision of the ambassador, in the chantry candlelight, at her Ostwick estate. She supposes she's attractive. She hasn't given it much thought. "I am scarred and blunt. I hit hard. I am not talented with words."

"Doesn't it occur to you that it's rude to ask the woman you've rejected what she likes about you?"

"It has occurred to me," she says stiltedly.

A pale smile. "You're honest and brave. You're beautiful and strong. You always do the right thing." She looks at her. "What is there  _not_  to like?" Cassandra's cheeks go rosier. "It just seems… like you're everything I should be. What everyone wanted me to be before—" after they gave up on their notions of having a daughter like Josephine. "What everyone thinks I am now. But I'm not." She frowns, watching the people pass by. "Maybe I just wanted to be you." Another quick flash of a smile. "And be with you—don't get me wrong. I'm not blind."

"You are incorrigible."

"You're not the first to say so."

The conversation is put on hold by a flash of light. There's a crack in the sky. Green tendrils shoot every which way, making the space around them wavy and distorted. The mountain shakes and the people scream. A moment later she hears the shrieking of a demon.

* * *

 

They fall off the mountain like pebbles. Sailing through the skies and becoming specks. Demons are everywhere wildly attacking anyone in sight. The templars and soldiers have a difficult time lifting their swords, getting in their attacks without also injuring the citizens of Haven. Some are cut down by Inquisition members in their panic.

"Everybody, please calm!" Josephine shouts after them. They came up with a plan. It wasn't much of a plan, all things considered. Believe in the Herald. Should the rifts open, she will close them. Push ahead. Do not look back. Move in an orderly fashion. This is a trial, a measure of your faith.

They scream as demons come from beneath them, flinging them onto their back, tearing them open. The previous snow, blinding as diamonds, is now soaked red. Where is the Herald? Why has she not sealed the rifts? Dorian is fending off demons in one corner, in another she sees Sera nearly slip off the mountain before Blackwall lunges to get her. The veterans are shaken.

They might lose an irreparable number. A number that could undo the Inquisition. The fighting is cramped. The rifts are open. Another nightmare, so soon after Haven. She hears people shouting for the Herald, screaming at the top of their lungs to be saved. Where is she? Has she gone? Has she fled? Would she? Josephine ought to know but she doesn't. Does she trust the Herald?

She spots her some twenty feet away, on her knees as others fight desperately around her. Taking a breath and bracing herself, Josephine maneuvers her way through the battle, getting knocked down twice, crawling forward before getting up and running again. A sword slices into her arm and the offending templar doesn't take notice as he continues to fight the wraith wrapped in tattered robes. She ignores the pain, hot blood running down her arm. Josephine reaches her what seems like eons later. "Herald!"

Evelyn doesn't lift her head and Josephine momentarily fears she is dead and they are all finished. She spots Flissa beside her, a dead demon at their side, a massive hole in Flissa's stomach. Evelyn uses one hand to try to keep the blood in while another is lifted carefully beneath the tavern keep's neck. "It's all right. It's all right. It's all right. You'll be okay. You'll be okay."

Flissa only moves her lips wordlessly, blood dots her face. Josephine blinks. Maker. "What happened?"

"A demon. He—erm. It—" Evelyn blinks and looks at her. "Vivienne said—She's going to be fine."

Josephine says 'Herald' over and over again but gets no response, she says 'Evelyn' and gets no response. Finally, she takes a breath, pulls back her hand and slaps her fiercely. Another blink. Evelyn sees Flissa and looks back to Josephine; a handprint forms on her face. "You need to seal the rifts. Go. Go now. Our people are getting massacred." Josephine stoops beside Flissa, placing her hand over Evelyn's, replacing her hand under Flissa's neck. Her hands bloody as quickly as the Herald's. "Please, Herald. We cannot delay. I will see to Flissa. Go!"

She looks around as if in a fugue before coming to her senses. "I won't be long. She'll take care of you," Evelyn says shakily to Flissa and goes.

Josephine huddles frightfully beside the woman and wonders whether it will be a templar sword, inquisition sword, avalanche or demon that ends them. These are the rifts that the Herald must face on a regular basis. How does she hold it together? Do nightmares terrorize her? Will guilt?

Flissa stares up sightlessly at the sky, choking on blood, a dribble coming out of her mouth. She grips Josephine's arms painfully. Josephine bows her head and hums a tune. "Close your eyes," she instructs softly. Flissa grips her more tightly, closing her eyes. Likely she doesn't want to see. Maybe she is only dying. "The Herald has closed the rifts." She hasn't. "And Vivienne and Dorian are on their way with healing magic. Ah, yes, the last of the demons is down." There's a growl followed by screeching as its cut down but there are plenty others. It is an ocean of terror around them. "Everything's going to be all right, just as Lady Trevelyan said. Do not be afraid." Josephine hears a loud boom. One rift is sealed. Perhaps there will be another gone soon enough. Josephine cannot look up, does not want to face any end. She keeps her focus on Flissa, pressing down harder on her stomach to no avail. Not a minute later, Flissa finishes bleeding out on the snow. Josephine continues to hold on to her. It doesn't occur to her to let go.

* * *

 

The camp isn't filled with sobbing tonight. There is a quiet acceptance of the rift attack, an awakening to the ails that plague Thedas. Josephine walks through the grounds. Some cluster around campfires, sharing stories of the day's events. Others wait to be tended by healers. Her own arm was healed earlier by Vivienne at Leliana's insistence. At the outskirt of the camp is a collection of bodies, each wrapped in cloth, some stained red.

They lost seventeen during the attack. There were those that skidded off the mountain, while others were accidentally trampled in the panic. Demons got the rest. Yet the people are cautiously optimistic. Skyhold is in sight. Josephine does not know what it looks like from the inside but from where they are, it looks like salvation: a fortress, massive enough to hold what the Inquisition will grow into, strong enough to stand against an attack by Corypheus. Despite the tragedy of the day, it's the first time she's seen the advisors smile in ages.

The people are hopeful; they speak of Andraste's trials, they know the way will not always be easy. She was mistaken if she thought they would doubt the Herald. They now know what she faces, what she survives, what she does on account of Thedas. They saw her seal the rifts and end the demons and they love her for it. Perhaps the Maker does work in mysterious ways.

Josephine finds the Herald's tent, removed furthest from the others' this night. A campfire burns outside and she sits before it on a weathered chest. She leans forward pensively, arms on her legs. Once the rifts were sealed, Evelyn returned to her and Flissa as promised. She sank beside them and rose as quickly when she realized Flissa was dead, walking away wordlessly.

The Herald is so lost in thought, Josephine has no doubt she hasn't noticed her. "Herald?" Evelyn lifts her face, eyes like pools of molten silver. "Might I trouble you for company?"

Evelyn scoots to the side on the chest, leaving enough room for her to sit, lacing her fingers. She stares into the fire and Josephine thinks of the night they spent in her cabin when they pledged themselves to secrecy on one another's behalf. "It is no trouble, Lady Montilyet."Josephine sits beside her. "Cassandra mentioned you were injured during the attack. Are you all right?"

"Yes. Leliana ensured I was taken care of."

"Mh." Then: "I'm glad to hear it."

Josephine isn't so sure. "How are you faring?" Evelyn doesn't answer. "You have undergone much. Not only the attack on Haven and the dual rifts… but also my considerable slap. I do apologize for hitting you," she grimaces, "but I did not think it a time for words."

She expects at least a smile but doesn't get it. "It was certainly one way to snap me out of it."

"I am sorry about Flissa. I know you were…" Evelyn looks at her and anything Josephine might have said seems trite. "That poor woman. If I may ask… what happened?"

"I was fighting two demons. There was one behind me. She noticed. I didn't. 'You're the Herald' she said. You never think about it, when it's an 'other'. A 'them'. A monster…stranger. Blood is blood. But…" she frowns. Josephine reaches out unwittingly. She doesn't quite hold her hand. Her hand drapes over the Herald's wrist, her fingertips gliding along the palm of her hand. "There was so much of it. Hot and… fast. All I could think was to say it would be all right. I don't know if I believed it in the beginning and thought I was lying by the end or the other way. You can't even bury people up here, in all this shit. In all this fucking ice."

Josephine notices a crude shovel on the ground beside the Herald, broken. The Herald's knuckles are bloody. The bodies will be burned. It's all they can do given the circumstances. "We will write letters. We will send coin to her family."

"Coin and words won't bring her back. Don't you understand that?"

"Yes. I understand that." Her agreement only makes the Herald look more miserable.

"What happens if I die, ambassador? What will you write? How much coin will be enough?"

Josephine takes a breath. "I do not like to think of such things. However, should such a tragedy come to pass…" She gives a small shake of her head. "There will never be enough coin. I fear I would never stop writing."

"The Herald of Andraste is invaluable," she mutters. It is true. Why does she object? "She wouldn't have died if I had noticed. Or if I didn't have a title. But I did—and that means something. It marks you as important. She wouldn't have thrown herself into danger like that for Evelyn Trevelyan. No one would." Another frown, deeper this time.

"Had I not gotten to you…" How many others would have died?

"I know what you're thinking. I don't have an explanation. I panicked." A beat. "I suppose that is an explanation."

"You cannot panic. You of all people. It will cost lives." The Herald pulls her hand away and Josephine's hand is left cold. Is she being merciless? Is she lacking in compassion for her trials? Would it be better to coddle her? Leliana thinks she coddles the Herald. If only she could disagree but she has protected her secret, hasn't she? She's kept her true character to herself. What is that, if not coddling? Still, it would be her preference to speak soft words and reassurances. If she didn't know how Evelyn tried to run she could afford to be kind. "I am sorry about Flissa."

"You'll write a letter and send gold and that will be the end of it for you. That must be nice."

"She died in my arms, Herald. What about that is nice?"

"You're right. I'm sorry."

She did not mean to snap at her. "I did not think you were so close." Did she love her?

"We weren't. But she was a person and she's gone now. You can get another tavern keep, you can't get another Herald. Fine. I get it. But  _she's_  gone. And no one will care." She sighs. "If you don't understand that, there's nothing I can say that will make you." She does understand. The Herald's argument is emotional, not practical. Perhaps she is not the cold fish she suspected. Josephine peers at her, at how warm her face looks in the light of the fire. "She died for me. And I had to leave her to go be the Herald. It must have felt so fucking lonely. What if she regretted it the moment I walked away?"

"I am certain she understood." Evelyn is not convinced. "Many have died for you, Herald. They do not matter less because you did not know them intimately. Flissa's sacrifice saved many lives. Where would we be if you had fallen?" There will be many others who lay their life down for her. It is what has been asked. If the Herald proves worthy it will all be worthwhile. "Still… I know words mean little in the face of death. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be." She thinks to touch her again but stops herself. "If I may say, my lady—you have appeared troubled since the attack on Haven. What happened was a terrible thing. But… I do wonder if there was something more. Something you have not shared." The Herald clenches her jaw. So, there was. Her face is fiercely sharp. They have gone for weeks undernourished, unrested, worn. "We might speak of it, if that is your wish." She is predictably silent. "Won't you look at me?" The Herald turns her face as if forcefully compelled by some invisible force. Her eyes glisten. "What is the matter?" she barely whispers the words.

The Herald clears her throat. Seconds trickle by and then she smiles. Her voice is thin. Everything false, everything pretend. Everything that Josephine asked. "Nothing is the matter, Lady Montilyet." She laughs, short and unfocused, her eyes on anything that isn't her. She closes her eyes. When she opens them they shine less. She smiles again, realer but no less bittersweet. A breath. "Erm. I suppose I should apologize if I caused offense… with the gloves situation." A half-hearted shrug. "I thought I might provide you some assistance. Perhaps I was only frustrated that I couldn't."

"I had forgotten the matter entirely." She does not know if that pleases or displeases the Herald. She no longer has gloves. The pair she owned went from violet to a deep maroon, dyed in Flissa's blood. She has thrown them out. Perhaps it was foolishness, the reckless, entitlement of nobility. "I hope it has not weighed on your thoughts." Even if her hands are now cold. The Herald takes Josephine's right hand in response, turning it over to look at her palm. The contact stirs something in Josephine. She blushes as the Herald's fingertips trace the marks of her teeth, her flesh still tender and red, not fully healed all this time later. It is a reminder burrowing into her whenever she writes.

"Why have you let this go unattended?"

Josephine smiles, partly amused, half puzzled. "I ah— … there have been others with greater need, my lady. Getting a healer to attend to such minor things during troubled times—"

"You've had everything else attended to. Don't tell me Leliana couldn't have arranged it." Evelyn looks at her arm, the torn material of her dress, bloodied, but her flesh intact, unmarred beneath. "It will scar."

"There are none unscarred by this war."

"This was not war. This was me."

Her throat is tight. "Then perhaps—we are evenly matched."

She brings her fingers to the scar on the Herald's mouth. For too long she has wanted to retrace the line she wove into the Herald's face. The thought has visited often enough to border on obsession. The Herald takes breath, eyes closing as if to focus on the contact. Josephine lingers, memorizing the ridge of Evelyn's lips, the small valley where the scar has buried. The action was inappropriate from the start and now her touch has strayed long enough that it is near obscene. She reluctantly lets her fingers drop away, grateful that her injured hand remains ensnared by the Herald.

Seconds pass. Enough for consideration. Enough to eliminate impulse. She goes breathless as Evelyn's lips press to her marked palm, soft, careful. Still as Evelyn does it again, brushing another kiss onto the inside of her wrist. Does Evelyn think of the time she held her wrists in that cabin? Does Evelyn feel her pulse thrumming beneath? Evelyn meets her eyes and Josephine swallows hard, hot for the first time in months. The Herald tangles their fingers, almost experimentally. She keeps close, warm breath caressing Josephine's skin.  _Pull away, Josephine._  She cannot.

"It seems as if you're always taking care of me, Lady Montilyet. I don't suppose there will be a day when I tend to  _your_  wounds and put you to bed?" A pause. "Not that— We should pray such a day never comes." Should they? Yes, of course. Evelyn releases Josephine, her face flushed and guilty. "Maker. I'm— Forgive me any impropriety. I— everything… has got me out of sorts." Everything…? Oh. Yes. The attacks. Being the Herald. Flissa. "I don't know what I'm doing."

That is… She must speak when she wants to guard her silence, she must think when she wants to do anything but. The Herald is only grieving.  _And what is your excuse? Are you so accustomed to the death of this war that you no longer grieve?_ Josephine doesn't know. She certainly has enough nightmares. "You are under a great deal of stress, Herald. Put it out of your mind, as I shall put it out of mine." She cannot dwell on it, despite how her palm and wrist remember the glancing of her lips. It seems she always dwells on what she tells herself she must not. Shame makes her face burn anew.

The Herald returns her attention to the fire, seeming tense and sad. "I've taken up enough of your time, ambassador."

She blinks. "Please. Do not apologize. It was I who asked to see you."

"For what purpose?"

Josephine can't remember.


	8. Deference

It's a dump. Ay, and further removed from civilization than ever. Josephine weeps on the inside. Still… it is safer than being outside in the cold, without food, exposed to open rifts. Here they must go hunt but the walls are protection from the wilder winds. The space is colossal and though it may have its faults—so many walls in need of repair, infrastructure and roads necessary for other dignitaries and nobles to make the journey—it is now their home.

They have all found their space. Leliana's room is smaller, simpler, Cullen has taken a loft. Initially Josephine settled herself in the most lavish space they had, at the pinnacle of Skyhold with wide open windows to look out, seemingly, across all of Thedas. In the end, she decided to relinquish the space to the Herald. Let her have her comforts, let her have the best the space they can afford. It is crucial that she does not feel slighted, that the Inquisition knows that the very best is being provided for her. It might seem suspect if she lacks the finest things. Josephine showed her the room upon arrival.  _The bed's broken. Fancy someone had a good time before we came here?_  Josephine changed the subject, assuring her a new bed, one up to the Herald's considerable standards would be provided, and then left her.

There is much to prepare. Fortunately, she has found a room with a cozy fireplace and a desk in fairly good condition, beneath all that dust. Her new office. Leliana smiled, listening to her extoll the virtues of the room.  _It even has a fireplace!_  Skyhold may be a fortress but it remains a painfully drafty one. They will have to summon masons and dwarves to repair some of the damage. They must also utilize soldiers and scouts as roadbuilders to develop worthy traveling routes. Taking the mountain route nearly killed the Inquisition. It will not be possible for nobles and others coming to them for aid.

She will have to arrange new lyrium routes for the templars, gather merchants to set up in Skyhold, order new furnishings for those visiting dignitaries (and the Herald must have her luxuries…) as well as ensure that there are enough of the basic necessities for their people here. The sisters will see to setting up a chantry space and they will have to import all those things crucial for a chantry… The list is endless and the list requires a fortune. Now the work truly begins.

In the meanwhile, Cassandra has deemed the advisors must meet. There is a new war room with a small, clunky table and a preceding hallway wall that is torn open from some past catastrophe. Josephine spends the time up to the meeting writing letters, calling on the favors the nobles with the Inquisition have promised. It is time to collect. She daydreamed that once they got to Skyhold, they'd have time to relax but now she has no excuse to not work. Fortunately, some of the late nights on the mountain paid off and some letters are already prepared and ready to be sent off. They need only to be sealed and sent via courier.

The time on the mountain was difficult. Though they were with the Herald, the so-called savior of Thedas, she felt particularly vulnerable. She is no warrior. She is not accustomed to seeing death on such a grand scale. She worried about her family. As the heir apparent, it is her duty to care for them. For years she has been working at getting her family reinstated as a trading power in Orlais again. They cannot continue the way they are. They will become destitute and lose the illusion of status they have. If Antiva knew how poorly things are going for them, they would pounce. She cannot allow that to happen. The Herald weighs on her mind. The final papers cementing the Montilyet's trading status have yet to be sent off. They all hinge on the trustworthiness of her word, on the sterling reputation of her family. If the Herald does something to endanger that trust…

She could never forgive her.  _Just how strong are your past loyalties to Antiva?_  They are strong. But she has her duty to the Inquisition, in turn, to the Herald. To the Herald and the Inquisition before her family. What has she done? Could another not have done this? She risks her family. She stares at the paper, and inward, feeling the pressure of the Herald's lips against the palm of her hand.

"Josephine?"

She blinks. Cassandra stares at her quizzically. It only just feels as if they have arrived at Skyhold but it's been weeks. They've all regained some of that weight they lost so drastically. Cassandra no longer looks like a ghoul. She is a strong, beautiful, honorable woman. "I am so sorry. I am afraid I got lost in my letters. Have I kept you waiting?"

"Given what you can accomplish with those letters, I am loathe to tear you away. You have a remarkable skill."

"As you do, Seeker Pentaghast." They walk to the war room, stopping in the hall to stare out the hole in the wall. The stars are visible. Candles and campfires burn. "There would be no Inquisition without you."

"I only declared it. A rather insignificant contribution."

Can she truly mean such a humble response? What a charming woman. The Herald is arrogant and insecure in comparison. "You have done much more. You inspire the troops and fight bravely. You have many admirers, for good reason, I might add."

That gets a surprised look from her, but she only says: "You are too kind." She walks into the war room, Josephine after her. Cullen and Leliana are already there. A chess set between them. They sit on the table, scrutinizing the board. Josephine steals a look at it, mentally moving the queen before dipping her quill in ink. These meetings are never so simple that they do not result in more work, in need of copious notes. "Good, everyone is here."

"When have we ever missed a meeting, Cassandra?" Leliana asks. "If I recall, you're the one who likes to storm out, 'too much talk, not enough action'."

"A sentiment I can agree with," Cullen moves the knight on the board.

Josephine looks at the counter move and sees Leliana move a pawn instead. Josephine frowns, not understanding the play. "Words do not get enough credit. The sweetest words can undo nations."

"Only when the vessel delivering them has an equally sweet face," Cullen moves the knight, taking Leliana's pawn, "but even the most cunning tyrant will bend the knee when presented with enough force."

"Are you saying Josie doesn't have a face to match her words?" Leliana asks.

He chuckles. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Too much talk," Cassandra slams her hands down on the table. The group looks at her. Josephine jots down the chess plays she's seen. "We are in need of a leader for this Inquisition."

Leliana smiles. "Straight to business. I suppose it is a mercy that you are also not silver tongued."

Josephine mirrors the smile. "I would be out of a position and the world would fall to their knees in worship of our dear seeker."

"Stop it," Cassandra shifts uncomfortably and continues as before. "We have commanded the attention of all of Thedas. We are more than an idea to the world. We are a force. Agents work against us. Corypheus—the Venatori and this Calpernia but when they look to the Inquisition— they see only a collection of individuals. We are advisors without a leader."

"A good point," Josephine acknowledges. "The Inquisition is something of a nation unto ourselves but as with nations, armies, causes, people turn to a leader, a face to associate with the movement. I put forth that Seeker Pentaghast take this position. As the Right Hand of the Divine it gains us considerable clout, not to mention, she is princess Cassandra Pentaghast of Nevarra—a much more highly regarded and well known name than the Trevelyans, a larger nation than Ostwick. The people also  _love_  the tales of dragon hunting. There were some that doubted the motives of the Inquisition when it was first formed, but who can doubt the Right Hand of the Divine, the woman who saved Beatrix and served Justinia?" She looks to Leliana who moves a rook on the chessboard. Josephine also makes the note.

"You wouldn't choose me as Inquisitor?" Leliana pouts, "I'm hurt—"

"You are not," Josephine taps her arm gently, "as if you would ever dream of escaping your shadows."

"It should be the Herald," Cassandra says. They all look to her. "I would do it," Cassandra admits, "but it is not meant for me. I am not the Inquisitor. And I am not the one who has put my life on the line over and over again for this cause."

"Don't be ridiculous," Leliana slides off the table, "you lay it all on the line regularly."

"I don't disagree," Cullen reluctantly gets off the table, "but despite Cassandra's fine work the templars would be hesitant to follow a seeker." Cassandra snorts, not disagreeing, but seemingly objecting to their reasoning. "After the White Spire and Therinfal…"

"And they would follow Evelyn Trevelyan?" Leliana looks to Cassandra. "I don't think that's wise."

"That incident was long ago," Cullen crosses his arms, "and it was well hidden." He shakes his head. "Nor is she the first or only templar to fail in such a way. There are templars who have committed much greater injustices."

"But they did not betray the templars," Leliana snaps.

"When have you ever cared what the templars think, Leliana?" Cassandra asks. Leliana glares. "The Herald is the only choice. She is the one the people see. She is the one that was chosen and saved by Andraste, the lone survivor at the Conclave. The people saw her seal the Breach. They saw her give her life for us at Haven and rise again. I do not know how it is possible but I believe."

"You would hand that kind of power over to her?" Leliana says. "She is unreliable, at best."

"She is chosen," Cassandra insists.

"Who knows what she'd do with it?"

"The soldiers look up to her," Cullen says, "and her actions at Haven and the mountain have been the talk throughout camp. She spent some time cultivating relationships on the mountain and they have paid off. They speak highly of her. Not to mention, she chose to ally with the templars when you two," he looks at Josephine and Leliana, "would have had her pursue the mages."

"How do we know it wouldn't have been the templars attacking Haven?" Leliana asks.

"We will never know the answer to that," he says, "what everyone knows is that the templars are with us. That has given the Inquisition credibility that it did not have before. Thedas knows the Trevelyans as Andrastian. There's a history there. We must use it. There's too much gossip about Nevarrans and the mortalitasi."

"Typical fear mongering," Leliana retorts.

"But unnerving, nonetheless." Cassandra shivers. "If I have difficulty accepting it, what makes you think the people wouldn't?" She turns her sights to Josephine. "You have been silent, ambassador. What do you think? Do you back our Herald?"

She thinks of throwing letters in a fire, of watching the Herald walk towards the gates of Haven in the middle of the night. She thinks of the woman who swore to her to be a pretender, to become what the Inquisition deserves. Pretty words. She knows how little words can mean. She knows how nobles use them to get out of scrapes and get their way. Her throat feels like sandpaper. "I … ah…" Leliana looks at her strangely. "I still think you would be the most suitable candidate, Seeker Pentaghast. Your family ties, your clear devotion to the Chantry and to the people. Not to mention your considerable experience as a warrior and leader—"

"The Chantry has branded me a heretic. Whatever the people knew of me is being quickly forgotten."

"There are ways to combat that," Josephine says.

Leliana paces agitatedly. "But they might take time and considerable coin. Both of which are in short supply. There are still some who believe that Cassandra and I are the ones behind the explosion at the Conclave," Leliana bristles. "The things people believe—. Idiots."

"It seems as if we are at an impasse," Cassandra sighs, "but this cannot delay. We have already delayed too long. We are an inquisition with no inquisitor. I cast my vote for the Herald."

Cullen crosses his arms. "With  _that_  title we make her a bigger target than she already is."

"There is no telling that the people would even accept her," Josephine writes down  _Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan_  and crosses it out. "To simply declare her the inquisitor and then have the people revolt—"

"They would not revolt," Cassandra shakes her head in exasperation. "Why are we debating this?"

"We'll send out feelers," Leliana says, "and try to get a sense of how the people would respond to such a rumor. If it is a positive response…" Another sighs and she massages the back of her neck. "I suppose she could be a figurehead. We are the ones running the inquisition."

"I would not be so sure," Josephine frowns, "we must not forget that even the illusion of power is enough to secure it, permanently." She thinks of her contracts. She must send those shortly.

"This would not be a figurehead position," Cassandra answers Leliana, looking heatedly at her. "We do not distribute false positions here. If she were made the Inquisitor we would answer to her."

"No decision has been made, Cassandra. Josie—you look to have doubts."

They look at her. Sometimes she is incredibly transparent. A failure of her trade. She bows her head. This is not something she feels safe with. She cannot recall the last time she felt safe. Perhaps, madly, when the Herald held her face while the rest of Haven burned. Her lips are dry and she licks them. If she is steeling herself for an act of bravery she does not succeed or maybe the lie is the greatest act of courage or treachery of all. "No. I have no doubts. Still… she must be thoroughly vetted. We must ensure that there is nothing, no act… no secret…" she clears her throat, "that could be used against us or the Inquisition. If we find something that could hurt us, we must find another one to serve."

On that they agree. They exit the room and only Josephine remains, studying the chessboard. Now she sees what Leliana and Cullen were doing. What move will she play? Cullen's, to eliminate the queen? Leliana's, to raise another up?

* * *

The twins drop their robes in perfect synchronization and Evelyn is delighted and horrified to discover they wear nothing beneath. Long legs, curvy waists, high— She hops out of the bed, book forgotten and turns her back to the women.  _Shit_. Who the void are they? "Erm—that's … that's quite nice—but we should probably get back to the party."

Yes. The party being held in honor of the Inquisitor. It's been going on for hours. She made her way through the great hall only so long to get to her room and shut herself in with a book and a bottle of wine. All of Skyhold roared when she accepted the title, the bloody responsibility, another abandonment of her real identity. Now she has two names to go by, neither of which are Evelyn Trevelyan. Wonderful. This could not possibly get any worse.

The door opens and the ambassador walks in. She looks at Evelyn, the twins, Evelyn, away, her cheeks flushing deeply before she silently turns and walks out.  _Take the twins to bed. The worst that could happen has already happened. You might as well make the most of it._  She discards the book on the bed, faces them,  _look at their faces, look at their faces, look at their faces_. She looks at their faces. "Praise be to Andraste?" She pumps a fist in the air and scrambles after Josephine, taking the steps down quickly and nearly killing herself in the process. She hopes the twins will be clothed when they exit.  _Maybe they'll wait._  That might be… No, she's done with that. After Flissa, she never wants to do that again. Too much maintenance. Maybe the qunari have it right after all.

Josephine's at the second door and Evelyn reaches a hand out at the exact moment Josephine closes it. Evelyn's fingers catch, a slight crunch and she bites back a yelp. Josephine takes notice and turns back, reaching past her and yanking the door shut. They stare at one another, flushed, Evelyn from pain, maybe guilt  _there's nothing to feel guilty about_  and Josephine, no doubt from embarrassment and shame at the woman who has just been lifted to Inquisitor.

The door opens an instant later, the twins shuffling past, pulling the robes tighter to them. 'Ambassador' 'Inquisitor' they murmur politely. Josephine straightens her back, her lips thinned considerably, eyes narrowed. Is it preferable, Evelyn wonders, to the doubt on her face, the reservation in her eyes when Evelyn raised the sword high over her head, declaring herself a servant of the faith? What the void else was she supposed to pledge herself to?

"You are missing your party," Josephine says icily.

Evelyn grins nervously. "I'm pretty shite at parties."

"It would seem you prefer bedroom antics to socializing."

"It's a different kind of socializing?" Oh no. Josephine doesn't like that. She turns on her heel and walks once again. What's the problem? Evelyn follows after her. What does that even mean, bedroom antics? This is the only time this has happened. Oh. Except at Ostwick. Did she hear? Did she really hear? Or see or… She didn't do anything this time. She can't help that people throw themselves at the Inquisitor.

"Everyone wondered where the acrobats went," Josephine says huffily, "at least that is one mystery resolved."

_Acrobats_?  _You turned away acrobats?_  Evelyn clears her throat. "I didn't invite them, they were just there."

"You do not have to explain yourself to  _me_ , Inquisitor."

"I suppose that's true." She is the Inquisitor, after all. Cassandra assured her that everyone would follow her directives. What the fuck are they thinking? Why would they put her in charge of anything? Why would Josephine agree? She isn't an army general. She isn't a politician. What does she know about putting Thedas back together? They look at her as if she were a savior but she's only a mistake. And worst of all, she can't tell anybody about it. "But I still want you to know it." Josephine continues walking and they go through the second room. Evelyn takes her arm. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

"Whatever for?"

"You first. Why did you come looking for me?"

"In case it has slipped your notice, a party is being held in your honor. The people of the Inquisition want to see you and we have had many prominent visitors come for that very purpose. This took a great deal of arranging," frustration creeps into her voice, "not only did we have to secure the necessary coin, but we had to send out couriers with haste, we had to import the finest foods."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"It is what had to be done."

"We could have used that coin to feed the hungry." She's irritated that she means it. " _You're_  the one who loves these parties. Don't pin this on me."

"These parties are a necessary evil. Outsiders must see they are joining a prominent, promising cause. Shall we have them come and stay in one of our spooky, downtrodden rooms? With Cole lurking about scaring them half to death? Do you know how long I wrestled with Sera to get her into a clean overshirt? Do you not care about the effort made on your behalf?"

"Of course I do." She considers. "What kind of wrestling?" Josephine makes a small sound of irritation. "You  _do_  get frustrated."

"It seems that is all you ever make me." Josephine ignores Evelyn's smirk. "You have the social graces of a mop."

Evelyn laughs haltingly and steps back. "That's not very nice, Lady Montilyet. Maybe I'd have more grace, if you ever thought to turn that charm on me." She knows what women like Josephine think of her. More often than not, they're satisfied to bed her. But then they grow tired of it and they begin to pick at that otherness of hers. The way she has more in common with a commoner than a noble.

"Do you take any of this seriously? First, you are the Herald. Now, you are the Inquisitor. This is not to be taken lightly. Do you know what is required of it? Do you know the sacrifice that is asked? It is not a title meant to be used for collecting a harem."

A harem? "Have we got one of those hidden away in Skyhold? You never gave me the tour." Josephine's eyes narrow again. "I don't have a harem. Might be nice but I don't." A beat. "It seems to me that you are the one that might benefit, Lady Montilyet. You appear to always be tense. My sex life," or lack there-of, "seems to be a popular topic of conversation, so I wondered when was the last a gentleman had the pleasure of taking our esteemed Lady Montilyet to bed." She has thought of Josephine as laced up, too proper. What is a woman like that in the bedroom, once she lets go of all that control? Or does she not relinquish it even then? Evelyn's face warms to think of it. Either possibility is... She must be a wonder.  _Why are you thinking of it?_  The last person she'd ever involve herself with. Isn't that what Josephine said?

Josephine looks at her with such steadiness that Evelyn fears she might have gone dizzy. "That subject is not up for discussion."

"What a surprise. Would it kill you to loosen up?" The walls around Josephine come up. She looks away. Evelyn follows her gaze. A painting of the ocean slamming into the rocky cliffs, green water, grey cliffs. Evelyn thinks of her eyes. Is there a storm beneath all that steadiness? "I want to talk to you in private. Let's go to my room."

"Not on your life."

"Your room?" She gets silence in return. "Fine. You clearly don't take me or any of this seriously. Why agree to make me Inquisitor? Or were you the lone oppositional vote?"

Josephine straightens her back. "You presume much, your worship."

"But am I right?"

Josephine turns away from her, moving on her way. "We are missing your party."

"I said I want to talk."

"What you wish to discuss is not a suitable topic."

"Is  _anything_  a suitable topic? Maybe you're the one that needs reminding." She moves quickly, positioning herself between Josephine and the door. "I was sent out in Haven to face off against some archdemon and magister god. I was sent out to die. I'm here, alive, a miracle, bullshit, I don't know. But I am here. I am  _still_  here. What else must I do for you to believe in me?" Josephine attempts to move around her. Evelyn shifts so she can't. "I stayed and I fought for  _you_. Doesn't that mean anything?" It sounds dramatic when she says it out loud. But is that not the simplest way to express it? "If you don't want me to be the Inquisitor, tell me now and I walk away from this. I don't want this. No sane person could want this."

"If we must talk we will do so after the party. But not now. Not here."

"Where?"

"Not your room. Nor mine. Neutral ground. The space where the chantry has been proposed."

A sigh. "Do we really need so much ceremony?"

"Ceremony is all that matters, Your Worship." She leaves her there and exits into the noise and bustle of the party. Evelyn stands, frustrated. She waits several minutes before exiting, plastering the smile to her face.

The others are about, Dorian and Vivienne in particular, mingling. Sera and Iron Bull are at the tavern. Blackwall hovers over the food table before straightening and making his way to Josephine. Evelyn frowns, catching Solas' icy gaze. Perfect. Someone else angry at her for reasons she can't understand.

She suffers through the party, the congratulations, the handshakes, pats on the back, the uninvited kisses to her cheek and hands.  _You're taller than expected_ , some say,  _shorter than expected_.  _What nice armor you have._  Where did the acrobats go? She drinks glass after glass of wine, her cheeks growing rosier with each drink, the stiffness in her body dissipating. Maker, she really could make good use of this position. Not that she knows what she'd do with it.  _A harem_? Josephine must think her quite the strumpet.

Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. Chief diplomat. Pain in the ass. With soft hands and unflinching eyes. Josephine allowed her to kiss her hands. Would she allow more?  _Not likely. She knows who you really are_. A pointless train of thought. The ambassador is a noble and likely has no attraction to women. If she did have an interest it'd likely be a way to pass the time.  _Is that so bad?_  It's all she's allowed, after all. Evelyn isn't sure of anything, except that she has tired of being a plaything. What does she expect out of Josephine, anyway? What do they share beside a secret and scars? The thought makes her uncomfortable. As if the woman needs any more power over her.

Cassandra was in attendance earlier and ducked out shortly before Evelyn did. Her body is tight with tension again. Maybe a harem would do. It's not as if anyone has ever been interested in getting to know her. What is she, anyway? Besides a disappointment to those who might have once cared about her. Maybe the best thing would be to become this great pretender. Become it until it swallows everything she once was. Is? Who knows? She needs to be something more.

She slips away, entering into one of the side rooms. Solas is there with his gloomy face. His eyes are cutting enough that she knows what she saw previously was no imagination. He did save her, however, stopped her Anchor from killing her. She ought to be grateful. She ought to be a great many things.

"Not enjoying the party?" she asks.

"Tired of being asked to fetch drinks." He touches the table and rises to his feet. "So, 'Inquisitor', how are you enjoying this party being held in your honor? It must be nice to be around your people."

The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. "My people?"

"Rich, human nobles. Privileged. Eager to throw their coin at a pretty cause. That wine you've been ingesting all night, are you aware of its cost?"

She's never had to think of the cost of anything. What she's wanted, she's had. Anything that might be bought, anyway. "I'm not."

"Certainly not."

She laughs, uncomfortable and not knowing why. "Erm— would you like me to fetch you a glass?"

"How clever. What a strange turn! A human, fetching a mere knife ear a glass of wine. No doubt you'll hold that story dear, telling it at all the soirees you'll continue to attend and all those nobles, they will laugh with delight at the queer reversal of roles."

"I— sorry. I didn't mean to cause offense." What the void has she done now? "Are you—" a pause. "Is this a joke? Are you messing with me?"

"A joke, Inquisitor? This is no joke. Though certainly, my people have always appeared such to yours. How brave you are! Standing before the Inquisition and declaring yourself a servant of the faith! I am humbled in your light, Herald of Andraste! Not only have you kept the people safe from the tyranny of those dreaded apostates, but now you have branded yourself divine, magnanimous! You have all but declared yourself God! Why not? You have the power. It's clever of you to use it. Cleverer than I would have given you credit for," she takes a step back as he approaches. "Another power hungry human using faith to corral the frightened, those desperate for hope. I am not surprised."

She isn't sure where the outburst has come from. All she knows is that the color has drained from her face, only to return with embarrassment, anger. "I'm not power hungry." She doesn't want any of this. She wants to slip back into obscurity. "I'm not trying to corral anybody."

"No? Only to oppress those who have systematically been oppressed by your chantry. Who cares about the mages and the injustices they've suffered? The Chantry says they have created the Black City. Now with this Corypheus loose, you have a perfect excuse to further the Trevelyan agenda."

The Trevelyan agenda? "There's no agenda," she sputters. When has she ever thought to further anything her family has had? If anything she has spit on it, quite accidentally, throughout the years. "That has nothing to do with anything. We allied with the templars— what are you on? The mages attacked Haven."

"Why wouldn't they? You made your choice. Your alliance with the Templars only helped stamp that they are the villains in this mage-templar war. They fought while they could. You don't care about the underdog, about those who have suffered. All you care to maintain is the status quo, all you want is to solidify your own power, your own narrative. Will you try to tell me that you do care for mages?"

Anger bubbles inside of her, threatening to spill over. "I do." Her eyes water, her chest going hot, spreading over her like a virus.

"Then this was political! And you're even more sinister than I believed. This was not a matter of belief. You know mages are feared by Thedas and you allied with the Templars, knowing that would buy you greater trust. Oh, you  _are_  clever."

"Shut up," she says through gritted teeth. "You think you know me? You don't know a bloody thing about me."

"I know everything about your kind, Inquisitor. You think you are special? Different? Throughout history, there have been many tyrants such as you, using faith as an excuse to take power and subjugate the people. You don't care about anyone but yourself. I would wager if you could take this power and run, abandon your duty and the people, you would do so without a moment's hesitation." Her hand lashes out and she grabs a clump of his shirt, flinging him against the wooden structure by the door. "And now you resort to violence," his full lips twist into a nasty smirk, "how typical!"

She punches him, knocking him to the floor and taking a grim satisfaction from the pain enveloping her knuckles, spreading down along her arm. "I was chosen by Andraste." Yes, that's the story and she's sticking to it. No matter how false it is. It isn't only her word. It's Josephine's word and she must pretend no matter what, if nothing else than for that.

He looks at her heatedly, wiping the blood from his nose. "You say you are chosen. I say you are a bully."

Ravens squawk overhead, black feathers falling down. A nasty slur comes to her mouth, one she's never used in her life, never thought. She swallows it. Anger washes over her in waves, indignation, that noble indignation that one could think to speak out of turn, step out of their station. Maybe she's a pampered shite noble after all. She blinks the tears from her eyes and then steps over him, exiting the room.

She leaves the grand hall and escapes into the night. So. Someone will likely come chat with her about punching one of her party members. Lovely. Maybe it'll be Leliana and a knife or Josephine and her disapproving face. What would Cullen do? Maybe just a punch and a stern talking to. Preferable.

Maker. What a smug shit. And right about everything. How can he speak with such certainty? He has no proof that she's not the Herald of Andraste and completely full of shit. And yet, he speaks as if he does.

What's worse is that he's right. Not about everything but about most of it. She's acted on behalf of her family, on behalf on the Inquisition. She has acted from a political standpoint, not on any principle. She's no fucking better than Josephine and all the sycophants who surrounded her since childhood. If only she could talk to him about it. Instead she's slugged him and hurried off into the darkness. This is all Josephine's fault.

She waits for her at the chantry. The space is fairly small. Good for a rendezvous. She smiles wryly at the thought.  _A rendezvous with Josephine._  Sure. And cows fly. Wait, Dorian did say something about that, didn't he?

Pale moonlight streams in from the broken window. Skyhold needs a lot of work. Maker forbid they don't impress a pompous noble. Evelyn looks at her throbbing knuckles and wipes at the dab of blood on them.

It isn't long before Josephine storms into the room. Evelyn didn't think the woman was capable of storming, though she shuts the door quietly behind her, leaving them in relative darkness.

"I see how this is much more appropriate than meeting in our well lit rooms," Evelyn remarks.

"You have assaulted Solas?" She whispers it as if it were a shameful thing. Maybe it is.

"'Assaulted' sounds so negative. Did he tell you that?"

"It doesn't matter how I know." Leliana, then. "How could you do such a thing? On the night we host a party in your honor, you assault him?"

That word again. "I hit him. Once. Fine. Maybe I shouldn't have. But he was being a right asshole." She shakes her head. "I didn't invite you here to talk about Solas." She didn't invite her  _here_  at all.

"So you would have us pretend it never happened?"

Her r's come alive when her voice bristles, rolling off the tip of her tongue. It makes Evelyn's language sound bland in comparison. "That's a perfect opening to what I wanted to discuss." She freezes, perfect opening and everything. Josephine waits, arms crossed. Evelyn clears her throat. "I want to talk about the night before the Breach was sealed."

Josephine stares at her, nostrils flaring slightly. "That will not be discussed."

"Why not?" Her voice is throaty and sharp. Josephine doesn't respond. "Are you serious? You're leaving me bloody stranded?"

"I am not leaving you 'stranded'. Did you not agree, Inquisitor, to my demands that night? Have you any idea—" a beat and then she draws breath. Straightens. "Perhaps, had you not assaulted Solas, I might have been more understanding. But clearly, you do not lend gravity to your role if you would think to attack one of your own on the night of your celebration. You would risk being seen as a common thug hours after declaring yourself an Inquisitor of the faithful?"

"You're right. I forgot. Inquisitions are known for being peaceful."

"Once again, you have jeopardized my word, Herald and I cannot afford that. Especially with everything that I have in motion."

"What you have in motion? What are you talking about?"

"It does not concern you. I would have you understand that the more I know about you, the less integrity I have. My word suffers."

Knowing her lessens Josephine's integrity. Well…  _that hurts._ "So you'll willingly make yourself ignorant? How is that better? Do you even care about the truth?" Josephine turns to exit, the conversation apparently finished. "Who am I supposed to talk to about all of this?"

"Unburden yourself on another, Inquisitor."

"I can't! I've sworn not to dishonor you and keep your word true," or whatever. "How can I do that and talk to someone else?" She goes closer but Josephine only opens the door. "You don't know everything. Something happened—something came to light—when Corypheus attacked. I can't keep everything inside. It's driving me mad. Josephine—"

"I am sorry. But I have done everything I can for you. I will compromise no further."

* * *

Her carriers have been assassinated. The papers destroyed. What she has been working on for years, gone. She finds herself hating the fragility of paper. Paper and lives.

A gentle breeze blows over Skyhold but it chills Josephine to the depths. She walks the ramparts and tries to gather her thoughts, but all calm slips through her fingers like those grains of sand on the Antivan beaches. She remembers going there as a child with her family.

Their finances were more stabilized then and they could enjoy long summer holidays, claiming entire beaches as their personal playgrounds. Those days are gone and any hope of regaining them, lost. What will her family do? What will she do? This is her responsibility. She wanted for it to be a happy surprise for her family. Who will take care of this if she doesn't? Her father, the artist? Yvette? Her brothers? Her family will fall apart without her.

She looks below and tries to gather her breath. The Inquisitor is engaged in combat with Iron Bull and Cassandra, fending them both off at once. As Leliana said, she does have a considerable talent. The Inquisitor is a brute, fiercely strong. In battle, she is wild, alive. Josephine descends the steps, hearing their laughter and grunts as they swing their weapons. A small crowd has gathered.

Things between her and the Inquisitor are not what they should be. The Inquisitor tried to reach out to her and Josephine wanted no part of it. These negotiations have been everything to her and now they are over. Should she open herself to the woman? Or is this the most dangerous time to speak with her? Perhaps she could help. But how? Beat answers out of her attackers? What an ugly affair violence is. She lacks any sort of subtlety, diplomacy.  _Yes. She is a brute_. A brute with feather soft kisses.

What did she want to say to her the night of the party? Something that happened with Corypheus? She can't imagine anything more disturbing than what is already known. Perhaps she has been unkind. But she will not let Evelyn Trevelyan undo her reputation and in so doing, her family. She moves closer to the group. Iron Bull charges and Evelyn feints left, slamming the flat side of her greatsword onto his back. Cassandra rushes forward next, swinging her longsword. Evelyn ducks beneath the swing before spotting Josephine.

The day is warm for Skyhold. A light sweat glazes Evelyn's skin and she stares at Josephine as if trying to decipher whether a smile or scowl is appropriate. Cassandra slams her shield into Evelyn's face while she decides. The crowd cries out in alarm, Cassandra makes an exclamation and Josephine pushes forward to get a better look. Evelyn regains her balance quickly, wiping a trail of blood from her nose and mouth. How does she recover so easily after a blow like that? Josephine thinks she might cower and sob for hours. Her face.

The Inquisitor leaves the group behind, moving past the throngs of people. "Enjoying the show, ambassador?"

A passing remark. Josephine hurries her step and walks alongside of her. Her arms are bared, chiseled as if from stone. What do the arms of a brute feel like… ? "Are you all right? That looked frightfully painful."

"A mountain fell on me. I think I'll survive."

Oh. It seems she has decided on chilly. Once again, Josephine is left to wonder whether it was a mistake to rebuff her on the night of the soiree. It was no mistake.  _Your family comes first. Your family. The Inquisition. The Inquisitor is a distant third. How are you not so sure the acrobats did not keep her company?_  "I am heartened to hear that… Lady Trevelyan." That causes the Inquisitor to look at her at last, cautious, near vulnerable, enough to slow her step and stop altogether. "I was hoping for some of your time." The Inquisitor is hesitant. "So much has happened. I fear I may have been short the last we spoke." Weeks ago. "And for that I apologize." The Inquisitor sniffles and dabs at another speck of red on her nose. Josephine pulls a kerchief from her side and wipes away the small trail of blood, fingers lighting for an instant along the side of her face. Evelyn's eyes flick to hers but Josephine seizes the opportunity to push her advantage. "If you would be so kind."

A hand around Josephine's wrist, a thumb pressed to the middle of her palm. Careful. "I was hoping for a bath."

"Oh. Yes. Please." A beat. "That is… please do whatever you must and then, we shall reconvene. I have a few things to take care of myself."

Evelyn releases her. "Where shall we meet?" Her voice is curiously professional, distant. "The chantry?"

"I was thinking the gazebo in the gardens. It is removed and private. The flowers are beginning to blossom so beautifully, don't you think?"

A line cuts along her brow. She speaks again, almost impatiently, without looking at her. "When?"

"Sunset?"

"As you wish."

They move their separate ways, Josephine crushing the handkerchief in her hand. She must ready for their meeting. Leliana has found a lead. That is a start. According to her, Compte Boisvert has information. The only price he asks is for the Herald's company. Like most nobles, he will use whatever means necessary to get what he wants. In this instance, it's lording information over her in order to raise his standing by meeting the Herald.  _Just as you must now use the Herald to have the opportunity to regain your family status._  Yes. It should make her uncomfortable but it does not. This is nothing to ask. The Herald owes her this, at the very least.  _She has given you your life and a pledge of honor. Is that not enough?_  No. That is not enough.

Josephine tends to her letters, her errands before bathing, dotting behind her ears with perfumed water, applying a delicate coat of lipstick, combing her hair out, tying it up, staring at her reflection in the mirror, ensuring she looks flawless. This is a presentation, a performance, an appeal. Matters between her and the Inquisitor are the most complex of anyone at Skyhold, perhaps than any other relationship she has had. She must ask her to throw herself into the political games she detests, on her behalf. However, simply launching into those matters will shut the Herald down right away. They must speak of other things and then ease into the dealings with her family.

Evelyn Trevelyan is not savvy and still, Josephine is nervous. Before she knows it, it's sunset and she must be on her way. Josephine arrives early but finds the Inquisitor has beat her to the gazebo. Surprising. Evelyn's lost in thoughts before noticing her. She gets to her feet and nods, taking Josephine's hand and clapping her shoulder before sitting again. What in the world? Josephine sits beside her. "What did you wish to speak about, Lady Montilyet?"

"We have known each other for many months now. Truly, you must call me Josephine." She does, it seems, when she is racked with emotion.

"Will you continue to call me Herald and Inquisitor?" she asks. "I have a name. I miss hearing it."

Josephine smiles bittersweetly. "As I have said, we must afford you the appropriate reverence. It is particularly important for the advisors, as we lead by example. It is especially important for me, Inquisitor—so that I— so that both of us—remember our place."

"What is 'our' place?"

They have already gone off track. The conversation makes her uneasy. She lured the Inquisitor so they might speak of the situation with her family. But now they're transported to a shared intimacy of locked cabins. Josephine twines her hands anxiously. A breeze rustles the trees and she closes her eyes, transported to Antiva, to the sound of water crashing along the docks. Her family has lost so much. They once commanded entire fleets. They have next to nothing now. They are almost common now. "Behaving with the utmost propriety is pivotal. I cannot appear biased when representing you. We will lose credibility, along with the Inquisition."

"But when it's the two of us…"

They rarely spend any time together. It is not a compromise. It is a bargain. "Then, if it pleases you, I might call you Evelyn." She glances at the Inquisitor, who bows her head, hands in her lap, tips of her fingers threaded.

"All right." Evelyn clears her throat. "What did you wish to speak about… Josephine?" She sits up and takes a breath. "Is it about everything that's happened?"

What a vague question. Everything that's happened encompasses the world. It is likely she wants to speak of the matter in Haven. No. Not yet. The subject is large and carries the weight of the sky. She cannot allow the distraction. So much of Evelyn Trevelyan is a distraction. There is a scar on her palm beneath the glove she wears. She cannot get away from it. From her. "As you say, my lady. The trip to Skyhold was difficult. Did you not find the nights terribly cold? And lonesome?" Evelyn grips the bench they sit on in response. "Tell me—truthfully—were there days or nights when you thought we might die?"

The question seems to puzzle her, pale eyebrows narrowing thoughtfully. "Forgive me," she finally says stiltedly, "I'm not sure whether you want my response or the Herald's."

"Are you not the same?" A slight pursing of her lips. Josephine forces herself to avert her gaze, squelch the alarming impulse. "In any event... I do not have your courage. We all look to you for strength; we look to you when we begin to falter." The Herald is uncomfortable. She fidgets. Let her. "The nights were considerably difficult. So much darkness. I found my thoughts turning to my family. I wondered if I would see them again. I wondered," her words lodge in her throat quite unexpectedly, her eyes burning. Evelyn touches her shoulder lightly and Josephine closes her eyes, drawing breath. "My family has entrusted me with much. My death..."

"Won't happen."

"It is more than my life. It is my legacy. It is their standing."

"That's daft. Who gives a shit about any of that if you're gone? Why should it matter?"

"It matters," her voice is hard. This is a simple concept, difficult for her to comprehend. The Herald must understand the importance of family, of living up to obligations. Hasn't she often acted in the interest of her family, despite the discord between them?

"You die, your family carries on about their legacy? Bugger that. Fix your priorities."

Josephine doesn't know if Evelyn talks about her or her family's priorities. She frowns. The Herald is unexpectedly sentimental. "My priorities do not require alteration." A moment. "Did you think of your family on that mountain?" A tightness comes across her features but no response. "Then you must have been certain of your survival. That they would be maintained. That kind of security… how I envy you."

"Your family is far richer than mine." Josephine bites her tongue. That may be true but… the matter still stands. "Frankly, I try not to think of my family. Just as they try not to think of me." The next she says as if reading some tiresome report, "If woe befell the Herald of Andraste, they'd be shamed at my failure and vindicated in knowing how right they are that I wasn't, in fact, chosen by Andraste."

"They would be wrong." The Herald's eyes are unreadable. "How can you speak so indifferently of them? Do you not value family? Loyalty?" How can these things, so important to her, not mean anything to Evelyn Trevelyan? They cannot be so incompatible. "You have an obligation."

She gets to her feet. "It seems I have come here for a lecture. Let me stop you, for I've heard it all before. Does it not occur to you, that not all of us have had a privileged, loving upbringing? My family didn't give a shit whether I was there or not. Nor did they think I would ever amount to anything, so I can't say I know what it is to have that expectation. I apologize if I have not exhibited loyalty and deference to your satisfaction." It is a sensitive spot for her. "What do you want, Josephine? You brought me here for a reason and not the reason I initially thought." Her face is red. "So don't waste my time and do get on with it."

Josephine is silent. She swallows, her fingers curling along the material of her dress. "I need your assistance, Herald."

"So there's a start. You know, when I said you should direct your considerable charms my way, this isn't what I had in mind." Her eyes dim. What did she have in mind...? "Don't fucking try to play me as if I were another of your marks, Lady Montilyet," that twist again. "Now tell me the rest."

Josephine does. She remains sitting. She tells her of the debt the Montilyet's have accumulated, how their trading status in Orlais was lost, how her carriers and the documentation that could have restored her family's status have been destroyed, how it is her responsibility to leave them cared for.

There is no compassion in Evelyn's eyes. Josephine wonders if there is some matter she has overlooked. Evelyn must understand the horror of having the family fortune threatened, the family left destitute.

"So your carriers are dead and the pressing concern is who might  _murder them_  to hurt  _your_  family. Financially. The deaths of the carriers irrelevant in the grand scheme of things."

Josephine rises, affronted. "I did not say such a thing."

"I saw you lamenting not a loss of life, Lady Montilyet, but a loss of status." She laughs. "You're exactly the person I thought you were when we met. No more. Perhaps less."

"You have no understanding—"

"Because I have no loyalty? I wondered why you came to me after so many weeks. You wanted something, like everybody wants something. I was so stupid—." She clears her throat, fingers curled, looking away. Calm returns to her voice. "But I understand now. Don't worry, Lady Montilyet. I will meet this Compte for you. Pull on my strings and I shall dance. But from this point forward, let's not bother pretending there's anything more here than a working relationship. Call me Herald. That's clearly all I am to you."

"What else should you be to me, Your Worship?" Josephine demands. "Coward?  _Deserter_?" Her vision blurs, the Herald reduced to warm colors, like those of the setting sun, false in the face of so much ice. "I have risked  _everything_  for you."

"You have risked everything for your reputation," she spits. "You could have exposed me and you chose not to. Not out of any belief that it was the sure thing to do, not in any hope that I might become a better person. You don't give a damn about me. I'm another tool in your arsenal.  _You_ chose this, because you're like all of them. The thought of anything that might make you look bad is appalling, is so abhorrent, that you would risk the world on the word of a pretender." Josephine grits her teeth, staring heatedly at her. "I never wanted to be Herald. But you must get off to this." Josephine doesn't know if it's the language or the accusation that makes her face burn hot. "You hold the very thing that could turn the world against me and you use it, to your advantage. How calculating. Why don't I denounce myself? You could feign surprise,  _grovel_ , have the world at your feet again, and then what would you have to hold over me?"

"You pretend you are so courageous, Evelyn Trevelyan? You do not have the spine to bare yourself to the world. You know, as well as I, that you are nothing without the Inquisition. Running away will win you no victories. You want me to expose you, you want the Inquisition to turn against you so that you may return to your life of aimless wandering and whoring? If you insist, it shall be at your hands, not mine. But that will not happen. You lack the courage for honesty. You have not even lived up to the Trevelyan name. So tell me, what would you have me call you? What would you ask to mean to me?"

Each word is a dagger, carefully chosen, not usually directed towards her allies. Evelyn crumbles, her face cracking like smashed porcelain. Josephine takes a breath, fire in her lungs, in her heart. Her tools are not swords, they are not magic, they are words, able to appear from nothing, dismember, destroy and leave scars that linger far longer than any caused by weapon. Evelyn turns her face away, wipes hastily at her cheek.

She leaves swiftly, running into a small fountain in her haste and then knocking it over in her frustration, her anger. It falls with a thud, burying into the thin grass. Josephine tabulates the cost for replacement, all while she is hot, sweaty, freezing in one. "Wait." She goes after her, stepping over the fallen fountain. It seems like ages before she catches her, a desperate stretching out, snatching only the tips of her fingers. Evelyn shrugs them away and continues walking.

* * *

Antivan wine is piss.

But she's near half done with the second bottle. It's a 'fuck you'. It's rebellion. An homage, maybe. Or she's drunk.

She's been sprawled on her bed for the past few hours, alternating between staring at the ceiling and reading from the Chant of Light. She knows the chant by heart. Though, she supposes most wouldn't know that about her. Evelyn rather likes the chant. The creation of the world is romantic, death and sacrifice, romantic.

_In your heart shall burn_

_An unquenchable flame_

_All-consuming, and never satisfied_

Her room, usually meticulous, is in disarray. The wine, the chant are not enough to stop the words, circling her mind like birds of prey. Fuck the pretty ambassador. Let her family rot. Let them know poverty. See how much they love her then. But the thoughts bother her and she hates herself for her small minded pettiness.

It's as if the ambassador went rooting inside of her and found every possible fear, every key to some dark haunting of hers and turned it. What's worse, Evelyn has no comeback. She can't even say that she's really the Herald of Andraste.  _How dare you speak thus to the Herald!_ No, she can't ever say that. She's always been a poor liar. Maybe she lacks cleverness or motivation. Maybe she's lazy and fears being discovered.

Could she tell everyone that she tried to run? No. Another thing Josephine was right about. She'd hate to think of the way they'd look at her, worse yet, she'd hate to disappoint them. She means something to them now and it seems a responsibility she should attempt to live up to, no matter how little she wants it. Flissa died for her. Others have. Chancellor Roderick believed in her in the end. That's something. She's done all right, hasn't she? Cassandra and the others think so. But Solas, who seems to know more than he lets on and Josephine— they revile her.

What is she meant to do? Maker, give her guidance. She slides off the bed, her head spinning wildly, and kneels. In the past, prayer was something done in case of emergencies, to get out of scrapes. When she left the Templars, she felt as if she no longer had the right to pray to the Maker. The Templars pray to the Maker. How could He answer them and answer her? How could He care about someone who had turned away from His teachings? Why would He care for someone who turned against her own for the sake of a mage?

What has she left but to repent?

She laces her fingers tightly, bows her head.

_The one who repents, who has faith,_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

_She shall know true peace._

Maybe Josephine won't hear her. Maybe no one ever will but the Maker. No one can hide anything from the Maker. The Maker knows all. He is the only one she need prove herself to. The rest she must let go. The rest she must let go. Is it desperation that makes her turn to the Maker? Would He reject her for that desperation? She has sinned and wronged and disappointed but He loves her. Isn't He obligated to love her? Someone must. Someone, for once.

_Many are those who wander in sin,_

_Despairing that they are lost forever,_

_But the one who repents, who has faith_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

_And boasts not, nor gloats_

_Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight_

_In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know_

_The Peace of the Maker's benediction_

A sound. She gets to her feet unsteadily. It came from the left. She moves to the head of the stairs. Josephine stands at the bottom. Evelyn doesn't know what time it is. The night is pitch black and has been for hours now. Evelyn's face feels partially numb, tingly. She takes two harried steps down and then, finding balance, another careful one. She reaches a hand up to the second landing to steady herself. Evelyn means to make a snarky remark about propriety. "You shouldn't be here," she says instead.

Josephine climbs five steps, stops, takes another three until she's only one step below her. "Forgive me, Your Worship, I could not sleep." She wrings her hands. "I find myself…" Her breath is unsteady as she looks up at her. Once again, Evelyn deliberates over the color of her eyes. Amber? No. Not that.

"Have you come to apologize?" Why should one apologize for the truth? It's disingenuous. Josephine's gaze is bladelike and uncertain. Evelyn is hollowed. She pulls a long breath of air into her lungs.

"If that is what you require."

She almost laughs. Laughter, however, requires an energy that doesn't lend itself to numbness. She bites her tongue. "You must care for your family very much."

"More than anything." Evelyn takes Josephine's hand, feels the groove of the scar beneath her fingertips. It's the one thing Josephine will never be able to take off. She shudders, dizzy. The wine? The contact? The wine? Warmth seeps into her. The contact. Josephine looks down, sees the tangling of their hands, pale against deep olive. "I am accustomed to getting my way. It is the way of nobility. You understand."

"I don't."

"Then you never learned how to play. We nobles have a game of give and take." A pinning with her eyes. "Usually take."

A surge of motion. Her lips over Josephine's. Yes. The contact. Tremulous. Every part of her hot and bristling with light. Careful. A whisper. Something more than anonymity, than chance encounter. Something that digs deeper. Something that anchors into her being. Josephine's lips are a suggestion over her own and then one of them shifts, turns their face so lips linger on cheeks instead, breath crashing along her neck, Josephine murmuring ' _your worship.'_ Permission? Refusal?

She cradles Josephine's face and keeps close, though not as close as she'd like. Is it the wine? The contact? Something more? Their foreheads pressed together and Josephine's breath accelerated. Evelyn digs for words and they come out in a low growl. She isn't sure who she's angry with. Josephine Montilyet has so much pride. How much? "You came here for a reason. To convince me. Will you lie to me?" Evelyn doesn't want her to lie. Despite how the truth scorched earlier, she aches for honesty. "Will you pretend and flatter the noble for the sake of your family?" Josephine's fingers cling to the fabric of her shirt, burying into her flesh painfully. She lifts her face, defiance bared. Her eyes gleam, with what? Frustration? Rage? Melancholy? Evelyn wishes she knew Josephine better, knew how to undo her, the way Josephine can pull at her seams and make her come loose.

She doesn't want Josephine to lie, to pretend. She gives. "You don't have to apologize for me to go see the Compte." Yes. The truth twists at her insides. Frankly, it's stupid. There are far more urgent matters to attend to than seeing Compte Boisvert and making a rich family richer. The words to Josephine are a needless revelation. She could have been proud. But what is pride worth? She's had enough downfalls. She leans forward again, not sure if she's motivated by pride or a lack. Josephine turns her face away.

A refusal. Because she's already gotten her way? The air goes out of her for the second time in minutes. Evelyn lets go and slides to a sitting on the step. Josephine remains, towering over her, an unknowable mystery, standing at the perfect height, enough for Evelyn to take hold of her hips and pull her near. Kiss her lower. Evelyn closes her eyes and tries to banish the thoughts. When she opens them, Josephine is gone.


	9. Blood

Comte Boisvert sits across from them. Warm sunlight streams into the balcony, a stirring spring breeze pulling at the ruffles of Josephine's dress. She examines her reflection, the Inquisitor's, in the Comte's golden mask. What a soft voice he has, accented, a mild sort of crooning sedative to put them at ease. Inquisitor Trevelyan is quiet, respectful, jumping straight to business.  _Who's behind this?_

Comte Boisvert is well informed. Startlingly well informed. Ah, yes, there is the talk of debts, of contracts, obligations to these fallen Du Paraquettes who haven't been a noble family in over sixty years. The long and short of it is that there are assassins after Josephine and will continue to come after her and her family should they attempt to overturn their exiled trading status in Orlais.

The revelation blindsides her. It is more dizzying than being in the presence of an assassin. Fate has conspired to leave her destitute. Somehow, that is more frightening than any talk of attempts on her life. The House of Repose assassin is courteous. A gentleman. She appreciates his warning in the face of this ugly affair. The Inquisitor guards her silence, though she keeps a gentle bemused smile on her lips. Perhaps she thinks these negotiations are a joke. The assassin drinks wine. Josephine recalls the taste of it on the Inquisitor's lips.

Their meeting is coming to a close. "The contract on Lady Montilyet's life is so unusual, we felt the courtesy of an explanation was in order."

Josephine bites her tongue. An ugly business, but well tended. Even the House of Repose has their diplomats. "It is appreciated, Monsieur."

The assassin gets to his feet and the Herald follows suit, calmly pushing back her chair. "I did not come to shed blood today, Inquisitor—only to speak. Might I pass?"

Her smile is tighter. Josephine doesn't know where or when the Inquisitor got the dagger in her left hand but the assassin sees it, and throws his arm up. It stabs into his forearm. He's wrenching free, perhaps would, if not for a second dagger in the Herald's right hand, plunged violently into his chest, finding his heart. The Herald's smile is gone so quickly that Josephine wonders if it was imagined. The assassin slumps back into the chair, the Inquisitor towering over him. Blood dots her face and lips. "I thank you for giving us the courtesy of a warning," she says to him as he gasps, coughing blood, his ivory and gold doublet going red, "it makes tracking you down considerably less difficult. May you walk in the light of the Maker." She yanks the dagger out and he falls face first into the table, dead. The bottle of wine topples over, spilling on the table, mingling with his blood.

Josephine stares, petrified. "What have you done?" She can barely hear herself.

The Herald doesn't face her. "He killed your couriers. His people want to kill you—"

Words versus action. Action versus inaction. "You don't know—he was helping—!" They might have continued to work through diplomatic channels. This needless killing is a threat, a mockery, an invitation. "He did us a kindness, and you—"

She rears on her. "You idiot!  _I'm_  trying to bloody help you!"

"Do not speak to me that way, Evelyn Trevelyan. Do you think this is how I want your help? You brute. Have you no sense of honor? You—" Evelyn takes Josephine's face in her hands and kisses her, hot and aggressive. Josephine's lips part, quite unwillingly but no less enthusiastically. Blood spills from the table like a river, the daggers falling to the floor, clanging. They leave bloody footprints on the ivory floor. Evelyn presses her to a column, hands roving her body. No, no, no, she should not want this, she should not allow this but she craves it, her body burns for it. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Josephine pulls her closer, tastes the blood on her tongue, iron, strong. Evelyn sighs longingly. The sound is sweeter than any song. Josephine wonders if she can undo her, undo her despite—

Laughter. Where's it coming from? Evelyn doesn't hear it. Her hands slip lower. Josephine is racked with anxiety, excitement. That laughter again. She turns her head, searching for it. There is nothing, only black.  _Herald?_  Her eyes open, her heart hammering. She is swallowed in darkness. She is in an oversized bed. Her room. A dream. A … memory.

Somewhat.

That... was  _not_  quite how things unfolded. Josephine tries to steady herself. Is it the dream that makes her pulse race? Or the night in Skyhold when assassins are after her? Her throat is dry. That dream was quite… inappropriate. To think that she could imagine such a thing. She mentally apologizes to the Inquisitor for the impropriety.

Then again…the Herald did kiss her the night Josephine went to her, ready to grovel, to beg for assistance. Yes. The Herald did kiss her. But not how she would have wished.  _You have not wished it, Josephine._  Another situation neither woman has acknowledged. Josephine has practiced what her response might be... But Lady Trevelyan has not spoken of it. And considering how Josephine has responded to her when she has attempted to speak of more personal matters, she cannot blame her. Nobles often pretend to not see what is before them.

Josephine sighs unhappily, turning on her side and gripping her pillow. She regrets how things have been between them. The situation with her family, Haven, has her on edge. She cannot remember the last time she felt at ease. Light seeps beneath the door. It is late in the night, despite the commotion. She does not begrudge the guards their laughter. Leliana has insisted on guards. She wonders what it was that she and the Inquisitor discussed after leaving her side, speaking in hushed whispers.

Blackwall has volunteered to keep watch. He is a terribly sweet man. Why can she not dream of him? She has allowed herself little daydreams, to consider what that beard might feel like against her cheek. When it comes to Ser Blackwall, imagination is all she can have. All they can have. He is beneath her station. If the Inquisitor is inappropriate, he is a hundred fold more so. A pity. His character is stronger.

She lies in bed but cannot sleep. It is impossible to turn her mind off. She should feel safe in Skyhold. She is enclosed in stone she ever feel safe? Why can she only recreate the feeling when remembering moments of barbaric violence? The Herald cutting down that apostate in Haven, the Herald ruthlessly killing that assassin.  _May you walk in the light of the Maker._  The words so fiercely spoken to make Josephine an unquestioning believer. Blood was shed to keep her safe. She should not feel safe in memory but she does. She should not be grateful but she is.  _What is wrong with me?_

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, questioning her beliefs. Her fingertips rest on her thighs. Moments pass. She keeps them there. She lifts them over the covers, sighing, soft and frustrated.

* * *

"You have been in a foul mood for weeks," Cassandra tells Evelyn. They recline against the stone wall of the training grounds, a battered combat dummy eviscerated and dismembered. Their swords lie on the ground in an X formation. "I know that I lack… certain social graces." Evelyn smiles, smitten anew. "But I am here for you. If you would like to talk."

"What if I were to say that I haven't recovered from my broken heart?" she mimes an arrow going into her chest, grinning meekly. Cassandra furrows her eyebrows, unsure, Evelyn gathers, whether to believe her.

"Another joke."

"Is it so strange to imagine that someone might be broken hearted over you?"

"Yes. No.  _Yes._  Stop teasing me." She crosses her arms. "In any event, you have seemed dispirited. Do not try to tell me it is because I have been… absent with my affections."

Evelyn laughs. "Maker. You are delightful." The disappointment that had long waned comes back in crushing force. She takes a breath, thinks to talk to her but decides against it. What can she say? That Josephine was mean to her? That she, in turn, kissed her when she shouldn't have? That she isn't really the Herald of Andraste?  _That you're an idiot?_  "I've had a lot on my mind. Being the Inquisitor isn't easy. And yet, you manage to be Seeker Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine and the Hero of Orlais. How do you manage it? Are you magic?"

"Certainly not," huffily but then she smiles. "If I were attracted to women— I think—"

"My charm would win you over?"

"I was going to say that you would drive me mad." Evelyn pouts. "But not always in a bad way."

"And you say you haven't got a talent with words. I beg to differ. Is there anything you're not good at?"

"Falling in love with women."

"Touche!" Another smile. Another moment of disappointment and then a beat. "I just don't know how you did any of it. All that life saving. All those heroics."

"Have you forgotten you have done the same? On a greater level, I might add."

"It doesn't feel that way."

"You have. I cannot think of anyone who might question you."

"Maybe you're not thinking hard enough."

Cassandra grabs her wrist, her gaze penetrating. "You are bothered. Tell me what troubles you."

What troubles her is that the people who truly know her, dislike her, distrust her, question her. She stares at Cassandra hopelessly. Words are on the tip of her tongue and still she cannot speak. Carrying so much on her own is lonely. She could leave Josephine out of it entirely. But what if telling Cassandra shakes the foundation of the Inquisition? What if they oust her? What if the morale of the Inquisition is destroyed? No. She won't do that. She cannot risk that. She will bear it even if it eats her alive. What does it matter anyway? She won't run away again. "I'm afraid of letting everybody down."

"Oh." Cassandra pats her hand. "You will always let someone down, no matter how hard you try. You cannot let that fear take over. It will paralyze you." She smiles. "I was going to say that I have faith in you, but I think you have grown tired of those words."

"Never." It's good to have someone who believes in her. Someone who doesn't think she's an animal.

"Then I will keep saying it. As long as you need."

A wistful sigh. "You're perfect. Marry me."

"No."

Evelyn slumps to her side, fingers tangling in the grass. Cassandra resumes reading Swords & Shields. Blackwall and Josephine walk in the distance. His hand is on the hilt of his sword. He surveys Skyhold. "Do you think Lady Montilyet has feelings for Blackwall?" Why does she spend time with him? Outside of the whole noble Grey Warden unflinching in the face of adversity thing, he's ordinary.

"How should I know? He is rather dashing. I would not blame her."

"I don't think he's so dashing."

But Cassandra doesn't answer, engrossed in her book.

* * *

The Herald moves into the room quietly, her manner as if arriving late to a funeral. Blackwall and Josephine turn to her. "Inquisitor," Blackwall's voice has an appealing gruffness to it. He is soft beneath all that armor. Not a thing like Josephine would have imagined a grey warden to be. Regardless, Josephine enjoys the attention. It is nice to be admired, even if nothing can ever come of it. There's… security in that. Josephine looks at the flowers that sit on her desk, freshly picked.  _I thought you might appreciate some beauty given…recent circumstances._  The Herald sees the flowers, looks at her, at him. "I see you're as concerned for our lady ambassador as I am."

"I'm not worried," she says stiffly. Is she so confident? Why is she so tense? Is it the matter of the assassins? Is it being in her company? Is she simply not worried because she doesn't care for her? "Ambassador. I wanted to discuss your never ending list of tasks to set things right with the House of Repose." Blackwall's eyebrows furrow at the Herald's words, no doubt unimpressed with her glibness. " If you have the time."

"I will always make time for you, your worship." She must, no matter her personal feelings. She must be warm in the presence of Blackwall, whatever ice may be within. Currently none. Perhaps her frayed nerves melted it all. "Ser Blackwall, if you would be so kind to give us a moment."

"Of course. I've some grey warden treaties to look over..." He nods at Evelyn. "Inquisitor."

The Herald returns his nod, watching him leave and waiting until the door closes. A heavy silence fills the room. Birds chirp outside, some have begun to build nests in the hall next to the war room. That hole must be patched, sooner or later.

"Inquisitor. Thank you for taking the time to come and see me."

An agonizing silence passes. "Of course, ambassador." She notes the flowers again before facing her. Do they bother her? Josephine doesn't know why they might. Evelyn Trevelyan cares only for pushing her. Nothing more. Josephine lingers over her dream, Evelyn pressing her to the column, kissing her with such passion. A difference from the night of their argument, when their lips seemed only to brush. The Herald continues. "I've just checked in on the men who joined Judge Auld on his hunt. It is as you say— they appear to be recuperating."

"You questioned my word, Herald? Perhaps the giant man-eating spiders were not so frightening as you might have imagined."

"Oh, I doubt that." She bows her head, an imperceptible smile on her lips before a shiver runs through her. When she lifts her face their eyes meet. Josephine holds her gaze but the Inquisitor breaks it, fiddling with her fingers before reluctantly looking at her again. "So what's next?"

"Ah, yes. Well... Since the matter with Judge Auld has been resolved, all we have left is to get a private audience with Minister Bellise. She will be in attendance of one of Marquis Wiscotte's fetes. He has asked for a number of things which I have already taken care of," the nobles are tenacious at getting a trade for anything they might offer, "so the invitation is in place. All you have to do is track her down and be... Well. Amiable."

"Amiable."

Josephine smiles wryly. "The nobility likes to be flattered."

"So I've been told."

Another silence in which Josephine tries not to let her face heat. It does, despite her best efforts. "I do not know what she will ask... I know—" she stops, swallows and sits back down. The Herald is still. "I know you think this foolish. There is a great deal that demands your attention and yet... I have not properly shown you my appreciation but... I am grateful." She looks up at her. "Do you believe me?" As soon as the question leaves her mouth, she wishes it hadn't. It seems pitying. Bullying. Not only must the Herald do what she asks, she must find Josephine appropriately grateful, she must not find the tasks overly tedious. If she finds her thankless... Maker, she has made a mess of things. Should she also expect the Herald to take her word? Should she also demand that the Herald respect her? Not find her disagreeable?

"I have no reason to doubt your word, ambassador." Yes, a perfect, rehearsed response. Her voice soft, her words inoffensive but there, tacked, the title— a wedge between them. "I trust you have had no trouble since this ... ugly business began?"

She uses the same language that the assassin used. A comfort from his lips, Josephine left cold when they've come from the Herald. "No trouble, your worship. Ser Blackwall and Leliana— you— everyone— has been most kind. And attentive." Though the Herald least attentive of all.

"I am pleased to hear it."

Every word uttered, as if read from a script. Everything diplomatic. And yet lacking life. Lacking unpredictability and excitement.  _And you should want more excitement when assassins are hunting you? She is a brute and you object. She is diplomatic and you object. Take the diplomacy._ Yes. There is a safety in this routine, in this predictability. Josephine smiles but feels as if her wings are beating against a gilded cage. The Herald turns to exit. Josephine stands, clearing her throat gently.

"Herald…" Evelyn turns to her but Josephine can find nothing in her eyes to grasp, to give her direction in how to proceed. "I apologize if I have been remiss in… extending you the courtesy you deserve. I know how little you care for diplomacy." And there it is—a small wrinkle along her brow, some thought that has gone unspoken, a tongue bitten. "And yet I have asked you to…" a shake of her head. "I should not have expected you to negotiate with the agent from the House of Repose. This… business… it has been—" she takes a breath. "Ah… a touch frightening, no matter how I try to put on a brave face," even now she smiles as she says the words, knows her eyes also smile, wonders if they appear mocking, worries they do. So much presentation. So many smiles. Difficult to turn off. "I do appreciate your attempts to keep me safe. I suppose I was… startled—by all the blood."

"I don't imagine you often see it." Not often. If only she could forget the Herald's face, cut open, the thread through her lips, the steadiness of her gaze. "Think nothing of it," she's already turning away. "I apologize if I lost my temper with you. I was concerned and would see you kept safe. Good day, ambassador."

And then she's gone.

* * *

The room is spacious but it is largely empty save for the bed. Marble floors, marble walls, hazy reflections. Dried flowers fill bronze vases. Sunlight trudges in past the pale curtains, white and without much warmth.

The rest of the home is sterile, the family portraits austere, paint cracked.

Minister Bellise has her back to Evelyn. She pulls her gloves off and tosses them unceremoniously on a nearby table. "Lock the door." Evelyn does. The Minister removes her hat and headscarf, brown locks of hair tumbling down her pale shoulders. "I did not expect the Herald to be so amiable."

"I can be known to be very giving. In the right company."

"Is that so, Inquisitor? You'll fetch me pillows, if I ask, and attend to me?"

"If you keep your word, Minister, I'll keep mine."

Bellise turns her head and Evelyn only sees the pale green mask with the dark red lips, black rimmed eyes. She beckons her closer and Evelyn goes, her footsteps echoing. "Take my dress off." Evelyn's fingers lift, touching the laces to the corset. "What are you waiting for?"

Evelyn pulls one string and then another, finding it strange her breath doesn't fog in the air. Ah yes, get Minister Bellise to ratify the Du Paraquettes paperwork and restore their noble bloodline. Give her one unforgettable night or intel, give her one unforgettable night or the Inquisition's army, one unforgettable night or be in her debt, for some unknown favor to be called in. Some favor, no doubt, that Josephine would insist they follow through on in the name of etiquette.

"You don't have to be so careful." Bellise snaps. "I thought you'd be a brute."

"Do you want a brute?" Josephine doesn't.

"I did not bring you here so we could make love. I do not care for meekness. Do what I say. Don't question me. Do it."

Evelyn yanks the cords to the corset. A startled sound out of Bellise and then a laugh. Evelyn jerks at the materials again, tugging her close in the process. "Take off your mask."

"You answer to me, not the other way."

"I'm the Herald of Andraste. Everyone answers to me." Evelyn rips the mask away, stares at her face. A woman whom was no doubt regaled for her beauty and has since aged. In her forties. Her eyes have lines, her lips small and thin. Despite it all, attractive. But there it is in her eyes, the fear of rejection. It makes Evelyn want to be kind to her.

Evelyn drops the corset, kisses the minister's mouth, surprised at the ardor with which the woman returns the kiss, as if she has been hungry for so long. Evelyn pulls at the hem of the dress, fingers sifting through soft silks before her hand settles between the minister's legs.

Another passionless affair but this one a negotiation, this one without victim, this one demanding a performance. This is the only thing she's ever been good at. "It appears we will both get an unforgettable night."

She strips Bellise and pushes her onto the bed. At least she doesn't have to pretend this is anything other than a carnal exercise. Evelyn places her hands on Bellise's knees. She might as well make the most of it. Bellise's chest heaves with want, waiting for her touch. Evelyn sets a knee on the bed before sinking lower.

The minister's gasps fill the room. Why can't Josephine want her? Even a little? The thought is startling and unwelcome.  _Why can't you stop thinking about her?_  She blames Ostwick. She blames Josephine's trembling fingers, her humming. Nonsense. Romantic nonsense. It's a madness that has seized her.

* * *

_That will take time, Lady Montilyet. Time in which the House of Repose will be obliged to hunt you._

Minister Bellise has signed the paperwork. The Du Paraquettes will have to make their debut, and speak with the House of Repose... Still. The matter is settled. Josephine breathes again.

_What did you promise Minister Bellise in exchange for her ratifying the Du Paraquettes paperwork?_  Josephine asked. The Inquisitor's eyes were far away.  _She only wanted some of my time. Something to brag about._  Lady Trevelyan gave her report simply and professionally, leaving before Josephine could express her gratitude, before she could press for details.

What  _would_  Minister Bellise ask for? It is no matter. With the documents ratified life can return to normal. They can trade in Orlais. They can return to being the most influential family in Antiva. They can reclaim their lost lands. They will take back their fleet.

Better, she is no longer confined to her room in the middle of the night. She can resume her work into all hours. She goes stir crazy when not occupied. At least in Skyhold where civilization is a distant memory. Yes. This is a most fortuitous day. The news will be a happy surprise for her family. She had agonized over the lands she was forced to sell, worried deeply of any interest they might accrue on their debts. Forget common, they would have been penniless, forced to some slum after a time.  _Breathe, Josephine. It has not come to pass._  They held on to the vineyards. The rest will return swiftly. Being a part of the Inquisition has given her access to nobles that would have normally been beyond even her scope. She has worked for the Inquisition and now the Inquisition will work for her. In a fair and most legitimate way, of course. She finds her thoughts turning to the beaches, to their vessels. To be on the docks again, listening to the water, to fall asleep on a ship as it sways…

Smiling, she readies her quill.

_Dear Mother & Father,_

_Today I write you with wonderful news. Through a great deal of political maneuvering—and… with the help of our blessed Herald of Andraste—I have been able to restore our trading status in Orlais. I know how you worried not only for our future, but the future of the Montilyet name. We no longer need concern ourselves with—_

Josephine stops. A door handle turns. She hears it. Who would visit at this time of night? Leliana? The Inquisitor…? As a bard, she was taught to constantly be aware of her surroundings, to pay attention to the smallest, most irrelevant details. Not to mention… she did love her dolls (and still does) and Yvette, the scamp, did make it sport to burst into her room and tease…

Josephine looks at the door to her office but it is still. Her imagination? No. She still hears it. She turns. The door to the War Room hallway. The handle is slowly turning, imperceptible if only glanced at. She did not think any advisor was in the War Room. Surely she would have heard. Surely they would have stopped to say hello. She has been working for hours.

She goes to the door, holds on to the doorknob. The door handle presses against her hand, moving. Gently. She tries to keep it steady but the force grows, hurting her palm, spraining her wrist. She releases it, rubbing her wrist. The door bursts open. She staggers away from it. Who is that? An Inquisition soldier. Thank the Maker. There's a dagger.

He has a dagger.

She turns and he lunges, snatching a hold of her hair, and whipping her aside so she slams into the desk, hitting her head so hard that the room spins wildly. Someone screams, again and then again. She trips to her feet. The soldier grabs her, one of her ruffled shoulder pieces ripping. He growls in frustration and she sprints to the door to the great hall but can't reach it. She cannot win this, beat this. Words fail her. Words will fail her. Only violence can end this. It's not right.

"What is happening?" She cries. This is no Inquisition guard. The House of Repose, here? "The Minister has ratified the paperwork!" Did the Herald lie to her? No. She would not do that. Would she? She is going to die over documentation. She always said it would kill her. She did not think it would literally be the case. The assassin is unswayed by words or honor, moved only by duty. An admirable quality. But one that will result in her death.

The door to the grand hall comes open. The Inquisitor, barefoot, a longsword in hand— "What's wrong? I thought I heard—" The Herald looks at her, there is a shift in her eyes, concern switching to fire, fire burning into rage.

The assassin looks from the Inquisitor to Josephine and continues his pursuit. Another shriek. Oh. It's her. She's the one screaming. The point of the dagger skirting along her ribs. The Inquisitor charges, tackling the assassin to the ground. What is she thinking? She has no armor. She has no guard. She doesn't even have shoes. The scuffling continues and Josephine finds her voice. "Help," she screams. "Anyone!"

The assassin kicks the Herald off, a fist knocking into her face. Once again the Herald gets up and once again, she chases after him. The fighting spills into the hallway of the War Room. The longsword has been knocked away from the Inquisitor. He steps back, winded, dagger bared. "We have no quarrel with you, Inquisitor," he says, "stay out of it."

"But I have a quarrel with you." She speaks as with the righteous anger of the Maker.

Josephine clutches her chest. She's lightheaded, nauseous, terrified. Her head hurts. They're grappling again. She cannot find her voice. Can nobody hear her? The assassin takes a few swipes at the Herald, she sidesteps most of them, though one finds her arm, the other her shoulder and still she persists, as if she were a fortress. Perhaps she is only mad. Or a reaver. A brute. A savior.

The assassin's swings are a distraction. As soon as an opening reveals itself he goes after Josephine again. She stands dumbly as his fingertips snatch the front of her dress. Once more, the Herald takes hold of him. They wrestle, grunting and slamming against the wall until finally, the assassin gives an agitated cry and punches the blade into the Herald's stomach.

Time slows. A trick. Some sort of illusion. The blade is yanked back, dark red, almost purple. Blood pours out of her. Josephine is paralyzed. Numb. Everything happens a fragment at a time. The Herald touches her wound, looks at her bloody hand, legs going unsteady and sinking to her knees. She presses a hand to the wall, leaving a bloody print and tries to stand. She doesn't. Can't. The longsword, lost long ago is recovered. Evelyn wraps her fingers around it, face flushed, turning just enough to bury the longsword into the calf of the assassin.

He howls, white rage blanketing his features and he rears on the Herald, dagger brandished, ready to finish the job. So much for diplomacy. So much for honor. He is going to kill Evelyn Trevelyan. She is more important than anyone. Herself included. Josephine moves. She is no fighter but she can push. She has pushed before. Sometimes that's all it takes to undo a life.

She pushes while he is focused on the Herald. It is a moment of time. It is another few seconds of life bought for the Herald, even as she bleeds out in the cold hallway. A push. Violent but ineffectual. Except—there is that hole in the wall. The assassin staggers back, loses his balance, slips out into the darkness, catching himself by the tips of his fingers, one hand.

Evelyn Trevelyan breathes raggedly. The assassin struggles to pull himself up. Josephine could offer a hand. Could extend the courtesy they once offered her. She could stomp on his foot and have him fall. Instead, she is still. Listens to his fingers scraping across the stone, a small whine of fear, his eyes turning up to hers. "Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle." He says. "Please."

The Herald's breath comes frighteningly fast, a fish out of water. Josephine fears looking at the Herald. She is unable to look away from the assassin. She watches his mouth, the way lines of terror carve into his face, sweat running freely down his brow. The assassin begs his intended victim for life. She remains still. Action versus inaction. His fingers slip a little, then again. Then they're gone.

Moments later she hears a sickening thud. She stares into the darkness, uncertain if she's looking outdoors or within. Inquisition guards, fill the room, the other advisors. Everyone is talking at once. Everyone ignores her and moves toward the Inquisitor. Yes. She is most pressing. She is the most important.

Below, men and women have gathered, bearing torches, surrounding the body of the assassin. A black pool of blood comes out of him, reminding Josephine of vials of ink she's dropped in the past, shattering when they hit the ground, black liquid spreading out like spindly fingers.

* * *

She is awakened by blinding light crashing into the room. A cool breeze slices into her. She sits up on the bed, mildly disoriented, lifting an arm to shield her eyes from the light. Pain lances her skin. She cannot remember where she is, how she got here, why she hurts. Her body is stiff as if she hasn't moved in years.

There is a figure by the windows, a shadow in the light, toying with the curtains. Evelyn can't make it out. Leliana steps forward. Evelyn's stomach drops.

"I brought you breakfast." Leliana nods at a tray set on the desk. "Fruits and cream, pastries imported from Antiva. They're quite good. If you like sweets and flakey butter." A smile.  _Who doesn't?_  it says. Evelyn isn't used to seeing her smile and finds it suspect. Leliana picks up the tray and comes closer. Evelyn looks around the room warily before settling her eyes on the spymaster. Is this a dream? She can't understand what's happening. Leliana sits on the edge of the bed, setting the tray on Evelyn's lap. "You've been sleeping for days. Do you remember what happened?"

The memories flood back into her, as with all floods, it is not without pain and a sense of loss. She'd been in her room, watching the stars when she heard Josephine scream. She ran, as quickly as she could. There wasn't time for armor. There wasn't time for more than a decorative sword. The ambassador was in danger…injured. Her dress torn. The assassin ran her through with a dagger. Josephine pushed and then… She doesn't quite remember. There were people around her. "Is Josephine all right?"

"That is your pressing concern?" Leliana's eyes fog before she nods. "She's fine. Thanks to you. She has visited. You haven't been awake." Oh. Has she? That's... kind. Evelyn shifts on the bed, uncertain of what to do with the spread of food before her. Is she hungry or nauseous? She takes a spoon and has a delicate bite of the cream and blackberries, her stomach clenching painfully. She's famished. She eats too quickly, gorging herself until she feels sick. Leliana watches her patiently. "Better?"

"I'm not sure." She looks at Leliana apprehensively. "I'm… sorry—I'm not sure what you're doing here. I'm not trying to be rude." She's too tired to be rude. Her head throbs. Her stomach feels as if someone has skewered her with a fire poker. She lifts her shirt and sees that her midsection is bandaged and red.

"Does it hurt?" Leliana puts a hand to Evelyn's stomach delicately. Evelyn tenses. "Belly wounds are particularly painful."

She holds her breath, unsure of what is happening, half suspecting Leliana is here to finish the job. "I'll be fine."

"Good." She gets to her feet, sighs. "I'm afraid I'm here for business. This matter with the assassin has everyone rattled. Particularly Josephine. She played a game before, but nothing like this, so high stakes."

Evelyn frowns, not knowing what she means. What game?  _The_  game? "How the void did that man get in here? How did he slip through our guard? How the fuck did this happen?"

"I wish I knew. It does not appear he went completely unnoticed. We found a few Inquisition guards slain. Young. Eager." A sigh. "It would appear he walked along the ramparts and roofs, slipping in through that patch in the wall. We have so many refugees coming through—"

"It's inexcusable." Evelyn says sharply. "It cannot happen again, do you understand? Someone  _will_  answer."

"I agree." She walks, contemplating. "Cullen, Cassandra and Ser Barris are in the process of appointing heads to thoroughly vet anyone who enters Skyhold. It will be a considerable process and will not gain us any allies. People are coming to us for refuge. They will arrive weary and not expect—so to speak," she grins wryly, "an inquisition."

"They're coming to us for safety. They'll get it, but not without a price. We will not harbor assassins."

"None that aren't on our payroll. Once again, Herald, we agree." Leliana stops and looks at her. "I have had scouts investigating what prompted the assassination attempt. Unfortunately, we are not in the clear just yet."

"You have answers."

"Yes. It seems our Du Paraquettes reneged on their promise to our ambassador. Once their noble title was restored—they thought to take advantage of their good fortune. They refused to cancel the contract, thinking, perhaps, that they might establish the firm foothold they once had." Leliana scoffs. "Typical. I should have seen it coming." Evelyn moves the tray and throws the blankets off. She swings her legs to the side and is assaulted by a vicious wave of vertigo. "You have not recovered, Herald."

Evelyn waves it away. All that work for nothing, the briberies for nothing, the traveling for nothing, the sex, for nothing, the sleepless nights, diplomacy, all of it for nothing. "I thought breaking your word implied poverty in Orlais?"

"They have been common for years," Leliana crosses her arms gently. "And it seems, they would continue to be." She looks at her steadily. "My question, Herald, is what would you have me do? They nearly killed you. They nearly killed Josephine. She has been… different since the incident. I worry about the strain this might take on her if she and her family are endangered for much longer. She is unfocused and hasn't been attending to her duties. Not as she should."

"Is that all you care about?"

"How dare you? You question  _me_?"

A scowl. Josephine mentioned they were close. "Sorry. Will she be all right?"

Some of the sharpness recedes. "Josephine has a spine of steel. But… she is not accustomed to such things."

"What do Cullen and Cassandra suggest as a course of action? What does Josephine think?"

"They have given me their opinions. I am asking for yours."

"Why?"

"I suspect you have a vested interest in this. You are the Inquisitor. An attempt was made on your life. An attempt was made on Josephine's. I would know your chosen course of action."

"And you'll comply?"

"Yes."

Evelyn's bare feet touch to the cold floor, a trail of ice coursing its way up, enveloping her. "We tried Josephine's way and it nearly got us killed. What you suggested before. Do it. Break in. Destroy the contract."

"It will be done." A small nod. "And the Du Paraquettes, Inquisitor? What shall we do with them?"

"I'm afraid I don't know much about the Du Paraquettes. Tell me about them." Josephine never went into details, waxing poetic about the gratitude they must feel to have their former rivals restore their noble name.

"There aren't many left. There are a few others scattered throughout Thedas but none that bear the surname. They do not speak. The ones Josie dealt with—Jean and Marie— did not communicate word of the upcoming arrangement. It seems they are waiting to have a proper debut for Orlais and Thedas. They're in their thirties. Jean spends too much time, gambling coin at the tourneys—but by all means, a devoted family man. Marie trades art in the Val Royeaux markets. She is a talented artist but has never had much success for whatever reason. I suspect a lack of coin to showcase her work. Jean's parents died in the Blight while they were traveling in Ferelden, more than a decade ago. As for Marie, I believe her parents are not far from the home she shares with Jean. They craft furniture. Jean and Marie have an infant boy, Pierre. They dote on him, which is saying something, in Val Royeaux." A shrug. "Outside of that, there is nothing remarkable about them."

"I see." She takes a breath, closing her eyes. "Destroying the contract should take care of the matter. But let's not leave anything to chance. Destroy the papers that elevated them to nobility."

"Yes, your worship. Will that be all?" She waits.

"No." She gets to her feet. "The House of Repose will have no obligation to hunt on behalf of a bloodline that has been extinguished. Eliminate Jean and Marie. Spare the boy. Give him to the chantry in Ostwick under a new name. They'll take care of him until he's old enough to begin training under the Templars." A life in the chantry, a life in the Templars. To some, it isn't much of a life but it is a life. Let him serve the Maker. It is more than others would give him.

"Is that truly your wish, Herald?"

"There mustn't even be a suggestion that this is connected to the Montilyets."

"They're commoners, Inquisitor. No one in Val Royeaux will care what happens to them. What of Marie's parents?"

"Do what needs to be done, Leliana."

A beat. A nod. "Josephine won't like it."

"Then don't tell her." If it were up to Josephine she would wish to wait until the boy came of age to be able to enter into such negotiations. No. The time for negotiations is over.

Leliana curls her fingers, putting them over her heart and bowing. The deed as good as done.

Josephine stares at the blank sheet of paper.

The letter she was in the midst of writing to her family during the attack remains. Blood streaks it, ink smudged, the paper garishly crinkled. She cannot rid herself of it, cannot bear to throw it into the flames to be devoured. If she does, she abandons her dreams. Everything she thought returned to her is gone. Maybe she will die. Maybe she will die and her family will go destitute.

Her room is lovely. Dark stained furniture, plush red carpets. She reminds herself it is lovely. She has been all but confined to it. Night has fallen and she has kept away from her study, reduced, once more, to isolation but this time of her own volition. She does not feel rebellious. She does not feel strong enough to laugh in the face of the House of Repose and tempt them again. She cannot exit her room when shame and guilt riddle her like the blight. A sound. She turns sharply. Candles burns on her desk, on her bureau. There is a pleasant breeze outside but she doesn't open her windows. There is a guard outside her door but she does not feel safe.

She cannot stop thinking of everything that has happened. She has nightmares of the assassin. She spends too long before the mirror, looking where the dagger cut along her ribs; it remains red and enflamed. The bruises on her skin, on her shoulders and thighs are turning varying shades of yellows and greens, others remain deep purple. The healers attended to the Herald and Josephine had no objection. What she had was a scratch in comparison, a scratch and a crisis of faith.

Muffled voices outside. Then a knock. Josephine rises uncertainly. She does not keep a weapon on her. If she takes a weapon, she has lost. She has abandoned all her principles. Again. "Who is it?" She asks, resenting how anxious she sounds. It is only the dark that makes her uncertain.

"It's me." An uncomfortable beat. "The Herald."

Josephine swallows. She moves swiftly to the door. Leliana mentioned that the Herald was awake. Thank the Maker. But since that time, the Herald has been occupied with meetings. Cullen and Cassandra, Dorian and Vivienne. She has not had a moment for Josephine and truthfully, Josephine has been afraid to see her.

She opens the door. Light enters aggressively into the room, hurting Josephine's eyes. Guards stand at either side of the entry. In the middle stands the Herald of Andraste, light, somehow, in the shadows, bright. Perhaps too bright. Her face is scratched and bruised. She looks thinner. "May I come in?" Josephine's throat is locked. She nods and steps aside. The Herald enters and Josephine closes the door, wrapping her arms around her. Holding her painfully close.

The Herald nearly loses her balance, tense and rigid against Josephine before softening, arms circling cautiously around her. Josephine allows it only a moment before withdrawing. She searches for the right thing to say but cannot string together so much as an apology.

The Herald laughs nervously. "Well. That was unexpected." She pulls back enough to look at her face, tsking softly. Josephine knows what she's looking at. The bruising on her face, the knot on her forehead. "Are you all right?"

_No_. "Me? You are the one who nearly died."

"Not just me."

"Herald. I am so sorry. I  _never_  meant to endanger you. I used your status to handle a personal affair." Her eyes water. "And because of it you were nearly lost. There are no words—" and then she's lost her voice. There are no words. Without words... She forces herself to speak. She owes her more than silence. "You nearly died to protect me. Because I was obsessed with returning my family to their former status. I do not know what to say. There is nothing I can say that will make this right."

"You don't have to say anything. You're alive. That's enough."

She sniffles, wiping the tears from her eyes. "How can you be so kind? I have been..." she clenches her fingers. "I have questioned your honor." Yes. Despite how she's proven herself. Will she always question her because of one night? Should she? Is she still clinging, harshly, to Ostwick, to the acrobats? How small. None of that should matter. "I have ... " she shakes her head. "Forgive me. I do not know how to behave around you. I do not know if you despise me. You have been distant—and I cannot blame you." The Herald steps forward but Josephine retreats, a hand lifted, afraid of her proximity. Close. Far. Both terrify her. "You are confounding. I do not understand you."

"Have you tried?"

Indignant words spring to her lips but she holds them in, suddenly unsure. She has tried to fit her into what she understands of nobility but Lady Trevelyan doesn't fit the mold. She is the Herald, on top of that. The Inquisitor. There is no other like her. Why has it taken her so long to realize it? "I  _have_  tried." Or maybe she only thought she had. "How can I present you to the world if I don't know who you are? The matter is paramount."

"Maybe who I am isn't important. Maybe all that matters is what people want to see." Often that is true… Yet, Lady Trevelyan cannot believe the words. Can she…? And even if she does, Josephine isn't sure she wants to agree. "I know I don't make your job easy. Say whatever is best for the Inquisition." A shrug. "The person behind the Inquisitor doesn't matter."

Often that is true. "Please don't say such things. You do matter." The words breathed, soft as a confession. She twists her fingers nervously. "But here I am going on… did you visit for any particular purpose? Has something else happened? Have you found the reason that the House of Repose still comes?"

"Yes. It's being dealt with."

"How...?"

"In a way that will keep you and your family safe." It must involve some violence. How much? Does she want to know? No. No, she does not want to know. Is she a terrible person for willingly keeping herself ignorant...? The words reassure her when they should disturb. "Your family is under the protection of the Inquisition and have been since the beginning. I know you'll worry anyway—but they'll be safe." It is a revelation. Why had she not known this? Had Leliana known? Had Cullen? Lady Trevelyan says the words so casually, as if they don't mean everything to her. Evelyn touches her arm gingerly before letting it fall away. "Anyway—erm. I came by to see how you were doing. Haven happened and then this so soon after. It's…a lot."

"Ah, yes. If I am to be honest, Herald..."

"Yes. Please."

A shaking breath. "I have had difficulty sleeping. The events in Haven... So many of our people died— turned to ashes by that archdemon... killed by apostates." She works tirelessly, hopes exhaustion will take her before she can dream but the nightmares come more often than not. "And the journey here..." She stops, shakes her head. It is difficult to think about, much less speak about. "But… it is an experience everyone has shared. I am one of many." She has no right to complain. She has had many privileges afforded to her others haven't.

"It happened. You lived it." She sighs. "I wish it had turned out better. You mentioned thinking of your family on our journey here." So she remembers that conversation—no matter how terribly it went. "Whether you'd see them again. I know how much they mean to you… You always seem so composed. I suppose I didn't see how troubled you were. You hide it well."

"I try always to maintain my composure." It does not mean she is without cares. She finds herself wringing her hands again but can't stop herself, paces. "But... it is becoming increasingly difficult. I saw you fall in Haven, Herald and then again days ago." Is that why she has kept her distance? Is that the reason she has been cold? Why? As if she's ever been hurt. As if the Herald could hurt her. She has always been so careful. "It weighs heavily on my mind."

"Why?" Josephine searches for the smirk on her lips but doesn't find it. A moment later a faded smile touches there. "Andraste guided me out of the Fade itself. She won't let anything happen. Don't trouble yourself."

"It was reckless for you to throw yourself at that assassin. My life is irrelevant. You're the one that matters. We cannot allow any harm to come to you. No one in the Inquisition will tell you any different."

"It's too late for that."

"You must promise that if these assassins should surface again—"

"No. I will not make that promise."

"You must."

A smile. "I won't." She moves to the desk. "What were you writing?" She pauses over the desk, no doubt looking at the blank sheets of paper. She turns, frowning. "You're not all right." A breath. "What happened a few days ago... I can't say I remember anything outside of you pushing a man. But I can't help but feel that I should thank you for saving my life. So thank you, Josephine Montilyet. For saving my life."

Lady Trevelyan speaks without irony. Josephine gave a push, Evelyn nearly gave her life. Seconds, minutes, ages pass looking at one another in the candlelight. Josephine is torn between crying in grief, crying in gratitude. She bridges the distance between them, a hand at the back of the Herald's neck, pulling her down, bringing their lips together. She has never been so daring. Perhaps the Herald's presence gives her the security to be reckless. When the Herald was away the fear felt like a safety blanket. In the Herald's presence, it's oppressive. She has tired of fear burrowing into her, making her body ache.

It aches now, different and surprising. A fire that purifies every sin she carries within. The Herald's fingers graze over her hair, settling at the small of her back and drawing her close. How strange, to feel their bodies pressed together, to tell the shape of her with her eyes closed. There is no wine, there is no blood, only her heat in the dark and Josephine wishing to be held more fiercely, kissed without restraint. It is a wild and unfamiliar wanting that makes her feel like an animal, caged for too long, tearing at the bars for scraps of food. Undignified and true. They part, Josephine resting her forehead against the Herald's shoulder. They collect their breath and pretend not to.

"Will this be another thing we don't talk about?" Evelyn asks.

"Why did you kiss me before? Why have you kissed me?"

"I don't know." She's lying. Something in her eyes, adrift.

Cold begins to slip back into her, little by little, like a poison. "Were you bored, Herald? Drunk?"

"No." The confidence of before is gone. The Herald palms her face, careful, as if holding something precious and fragile. "I'm sorry. I can't stop thinking about you. I wish I could stop thinking about you."

Josephine swallows. The situation is perilous. "What you did for me—" Evelyn brushes the hair back from her face. Josephine frowns. "Don't. I look frightening." The Herald smiles faintly, shakes her head. "Listen to me— would you have done that for anyone else?" The Herald's eyes are a mirror. Josephine isn't sure she sees anything other than her own desires. "I must know."

"I want to kiss you again."

"You're avoiding the question."

"You won't like any answer to that question."

Perhaps that's true… as much as it shames her to think it. The Herald kisses her again and Josephine rests against her, parting her lips, the kiss deepening. The Herald sighs softly, like the dream.  _But no blood_. No? Isn't that their common ground? Taking lives for one another? The thought leaves her cold, conflicting with the wildfire moving through her. She is repulsed, ensnared. There has to be more than that as common ground. She thinks of that boy from long ago, dead at the foot of the stairs. Her heart never beat so wildly until now.

The Herald's hand on her waist, sliding up her side, tentative, nearing her breasts. Josephine grows nervous, pulls away, bowing her head, trying to still her shaking. The Herald is startled. "Did I do something wrong?" Josephine cannot say. "Are we going to go back to not talking?" The worry is naked in her voice.

"No. No." Josephine creates distance between them, straightening her dress. "Forgive me. I have… so much on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes.  _No_. Yes.  _No._  "It's late and there are guards posted at the door. They might... they might make assumptions."

"Assumptions like the Herald of Andraste and the ambassador to the Inquisition are kissing? They wouldn't be wrong."

"I am afraid I have let my passions carry me away. Antivans value passion but..." She licks her lips, feeling, still, the phantom touch of the Herald's fingers along her body. Wishing they lingered there as before. Josephine faces her. Evelyn Trevelyan is retreating without moving a muscle. Josephine goes to her, taking her hands, hoping physical contact will be enough of an anchor. "I do not regret this." She lifts Evelyn's hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, those hands, capable of so much violence, capable of sealing away demons, capable of saving her life. "Please do not think I am turning you away. It is just—well... you are the Herald and I am the ambassador. I have said before how we must project an image of professionalism. This new…development, does not change things." She should not involve herself with the Herald. She nearly says so but doesn't want to see Lady Trevelyan pull away again. Is she not allowed her own life? Her own desires? Just once? Perhaps she is. But not without stipulation. "Decorum is our armor."

"I prefer swords."

"It has not gone unnoticed." The Herald cocks her head, as if trying to better see her, better understand. "I would like your company… Very much." The Herald is close, a hand to her face, brandishing her own weapon, an aura of raw sensuality that pulls Josephine in. "I ah—you are…" A kiss. Josephine gives herself to it. She doesn't know what she's saying. She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't know what the Herald is to her. Besides fire and ice.

The kiss ends and Josephine's free again, can breathe again. Neither is so sweet as she previously imagined. "Evelyn…" The name makes her soft. Malleable. Josephine keeps that, stores it. "What is between us... must stay between us." A nod. "It must be private." Josephine grazes her hand along Evelyn's cheek. A word in the last sentence has made her flinch. Josephine feels the ripples beneath her fingertips. "Please understand." Evelyn's eyes smolder. Lust? Anger? Josephine is only happy that it is there. Better that than so many illusions of propriety. She does not think she cares for that between them. "You must go now."

"Let me stay." What does she mean, 'stay'? "We can talk."

"You are not interested in talk." Josephine fears that under the steady assault of Evelyn's touches, she isn't either. "We'll see one another at a later time."

"Do you promise?" A kiss brushed to the scar of Josephine's hand.

"I promise."

* * *

 


	10. Illumination

Josephine wakes terrified, a scream lodged in her throat. She sees only black. Is she asleep still? Is she dead? The answer is out of reach. Seconds spiral into infinity. Her eyes adjust to the darkness. She's alive.

This is her new reality. Sleep has become a distant friend. The advisors look at her apprehensively. She is distracted. She does not spend her nights in the study. She has been troubled since finding the heel of her golden slipper, worn on the night of the attack, soaked in the Herald's blood.

And so there are questions. When did she step in it? While the Herald bled, gasping on the floor? While Josephine pushed a man to his death? Perhaps she stepped in it as she calculated the fear in his eyes. She made a conscious decision to let him fall to his death. Is violence acceptable after diplomacy fails? The question haunts her. If only there was someone to confide in. Leliana can't be objective with her. She treats her so much like a child sometimes.

Perhaps she can confide in the Herald. Evelyn Trevelyan has been absent over a week. The matter with the House of Repose remains unresolved. Josephine's agitated. Will she ever be at ease again? There is a spring inside her, coiled and twisting. It has been with her since she was a child, always manageable. Pleasing others, pleasing herself, eases the tension.

As such, she has lived her life in trades. Her recent diplomatic failures have left her at a loss. If only things were as simple as inventing stories for her doll collection is. She likes dolls. They allow her a fantasy beyond her reach. People, however, grant greater satisfaction when they bend to her will. It is a matter of skill.

Horses gallop in the distance. Her heart is chill but her limbs uncomfortably warm and sensitive. She pulls the covers off and goes to the window. The night sky is a sea of drowned sapphires. The stars are the bright reflection of knives. Torches dance in the night, heading in a steady stream toward the gates. She thinks of the assassin, broken on the ground like a fallen marionette. A persistent thought. The gates to Skyhold open and riders enter. Josephine touches a palm to the cool glass of the window before lighting a candle and setting it on the sill. She returns to the bed. She sits. She waits.

Better to think of happier things. She reminisces on letters from Blackwall. She has a small collection now and she has no doubt that he has hers stowed somewhere. The exchange of letters began upon arriving at Skyhold though she doesn't quite know how. It seemed the most natural thing. If natural things can be exciting, and she doesn't know that they can. Are her letters a comfort as his have been to her? They are warmth in the blighted cold, nourishment when she has gone hungry. Yet, her lips burn with the memory of Evelyn.

She falls asleep thinking of them. She dreams of spills, broken limbs, fire and lips, archdemons, secrecy, blades, kisses, of the grey warden, of her. The rapping on the door is gentle as rain but enough to rouse her. Josephine lifts, as if in a dream and goes to the door where the Herald waits, eyes luminescent, armor and face gleaming. It has rained. "I saw your light," she says softly, as if not to wake the rest of Skyhold. Josephine knows she saw the light. Had hoped she would.

Josephine takes her hand and pulls her inside. It's late and Josephine has no doubt that Lady Trevelyan is weary, as she herself is. Her presence is enough stir some energy within. Not a moment later their lips are joined hazy, dreamlike, soft and filling. They make small talk.  _How are you?_   _Better now._  Filler between kisses.

But this is a reunion. Ardor triumphs over talk. It is incredibly scandalous. But… that is part of the draw. Josephine has given the matter considerable thought. A seemingly endless number of questions that boil down to: what is she doing? Is this the only adventure she can have when she is far from court and intrigue? Is this refuge when Blackwall isn't available? Does she care for Evelyn?  _Could_  she care for her? How is the Herald's injury? How does it look? Does it stir beneath the armor? Does Evelyn see it and think of her? Was it madness or desperation that seized her? Gratitude? Those sorts of things.

She never thought the Herald could truly turn her attention to her. The Herald is known for her games. And she has conquered a great many of them. How many others has she made feel like this? As if they were the only ones that mattered? The Herald's hands are adventurous, they seek, they roam. Josephine is half mad with want, frayed to the edges by nerves. Soon, even thoughts leave her.

_Let me stay the night._  Evelyn's smile doesn't cease, the words brushed into her ear.  _No, your worship. We both have much to do in the morning._  She still has enough sense to remember their respective roles. They barter. Josephine has a greater talent, a stronger will. But she submits to Evelyn's kisses, a willing captive. Evelyn's hand, wet with rain, pulls at her nightgown. The touch is cold and electric against her flushed skin.  _Are you not satisfied with kisses?_ Josephine asks even as she moves against the touch, craving her contact. _I won't be satisfied until I have all of you._

Evelyn plucks a clip free, spilling a lock of hair. It has been years since anyone loosed her hair, since those days when she involved herself in the Game, in the days when some victories could only be gained by using her charms, her hands, her mouth. It has been so long that she is left feeling shy and out of practice, but it comes back to her naturally and judging by the Herald's hungry kisses, she would say she has not lost her charms entirely.

_You are bold._ That only succeeds in getting a grin out of her and Josephine can't blame her. She isn't rebuffing her advances.  _Did you think of me when you were gone, your worship?_ Ah, the way her eyes heat and melt, cool, soothing in the dark, fingers at the back of her neck.  _Yes_.  _Every night._  And then Josephine's head tilting back, lips claimed again. It is very much like drowning. A pleasant sort. Josephine's fingers graze along the frustratingly cold and rigid armor, trailing along the sides and below, finding their way beneath to her waist. Evelyn gasps, not with want but with pain.

They blink. Josephine's fingers are damp, with blood. She looks at Evelyn but the Herald doesn't look back.

* * *

Blackwall slips the letter beneath the door. He stares at it as if what were between him and Josephine's room were not a door but a pillar of fire. He wears longing like a cloak, melancholy like armor. He stakes a few regretful steps back and and leaves.

Evelyn waits minutes. Cold worms into her. Is it jealousy she feels? Disappointment? Keep things private, Josephine said. Eventually, she moves around the column and to Josephine's door. It is past midnight. Blackwall's visit is most… 'indecent' as Josephine might say. She's the Herald. She knows why the guards let her up the curled stairway but Blackwall, why was he allowed to pass? How often does he visit?

She considers knocking but she's expected. She opens the door and walks inside, nervous, excited, confounded. Josephine is at her desk writing. What does she write? Something for him? Evelyn retrieves the letter from the floor. It's bound in pretty red ribbon. How romantic.  _And what do you know of romance?_  Nothing. Josephine notices her and turns. Evelyn holds the letter up. "Expecting someone else, Lady Montilyet?"

Josephine rises. She hasn't caught her in the midst of sleep tonight. She wears one of her frilly, ruffled dresses, bright against the mood she dons recently. Soft against the steel in her spine. "Who else might I expect, your worship?"

Ah, 'your worship'. Evelyn smiles and pulls away the ribbon from the letter. Josephine takes two quick steps forward and stops. Evelyn snaps it open and reads aloud. "My dearest Josephine—thank you for your most recent letter. I can't help but think of the terrible thing these assassins have done. Not only did they rescind their word—they have made you wary of walking the castle. I see the way you flinch when the Inquisition guards draw near." Does she? How has he noticed it when she has not?  _He likely sees her more._  " I hate to see how this event has affected you. I miss seeing the sun upon your beautiful face—" her fingers tighten on the paper as she finishes the letter in silence. What pretty words he has, prettier than hers. "He does like to go on, doesn't he?"

Josephine snatches the letter away, flustered. "The letter was addressed to me. Have you no courtesy, Herald?"

"No. Are you sleeping with him?"

"Do not be absurd. Ser Blackwall and I are… acquaintances, that is all."

"That letter doesn't sound like acquaintances. Do acquaintances sneak around in the dark, pushing letters under doors?"

Josephine folds the letter, turning her back to Evelyn as she sets it on the desk. "Sometimes, they only push doors open and take letters that aren't addressed to them."

Evelyn stares at her back. Shapely, feminine, soft. She is beginning to realize she severely underestimated Josephine Montilyet. She is merciless, isn't she, in getting her way? What are swords to words that puncture and wound, leaving not even scars so that others might see and offer their sympathies? Josephine is as fierce a warrior as Evelyn has encountered and yet she dons ruffles and Evelyn armor. "Are you angry that I read your letter? Or are you angry that I read  _that_  letter?"

"I am not angry at all, your worship."

Josephine's words are laden with frost. What about that Antivan temper, that passion, that fire? Where is it? "Then turn around and look at me." A moment passes. Josephine turns, her features perfectly arranged, her expression pleasant. Is she a great actress or did Evelyn imagine that worry a minute ago? It makes her feel insecure. What is happening between them? She vaguely remembers Blackwall going to Josephine in the mountain, walking the grounds with her. He  _still_  walks the grounds with her, while things between her and Josephine must remain 'private'. They see one another in the war room, exchanging glances in her office, fingers brushing. But how quickly Josephine yanks her hand back when she hears a sound. Why does  _she_  have to skulk around? She's the bleeding Herald of Andraste. Every recollection creates a ripple effect. He brought her flowers. How often does he bring her flowers? Evelyn sees them crop up on her desk from time to time. How often do they write one another? "Why do you write him?"

"I write many letters."

"You don't write me."

Josephine smiles faintly. "I have no need to write to you."

"But you have need to write to him?"

"What interest have you in dialogue?" Josephine narrows her eyes as if trying to recognize her, as if she were muddled. She seems to always be muddled in the eyes of nobility. Muddled. Muddy? Evelyn keeps her shoulders from sagging but can't help but avert her eyes. It is difficult to think clearly when she looks at her. "I… have upset you but I cannot determine why." Can't she? Josephine steps close, touching Evelyn's face to draw her attention. "Is it not you in my chambers at this late hour?"

It is her in Josephine's chamber at this late hour. Evelyn snakes an arm around Josephine's waist, pulling her close. This. Always this. Just this. Josephine lifts her pretty face up to look at her. Evelyn supposes she shouldn't complain about seeing her almost exclusively in candlelight. Josephine is radiant. But would it be so unconscionable to walk with her in the sunlight? Is it so ridiculous that they get to know one another? "Does that mean you'll allow me the pleasure of your company tonight?"

Evelyn has nearly recovered from the work of the House of Repose assassin. Healing, potions, healing, potions, armor. And then a wyvern or bloody blight wolf will get a good hit in and tear her open again. She has seen Cassandra's panicked face when the blood runs down beneath her armor. Cassandra is always the first to notice. Dorian grins as he plants himself beside her, time after time.  _Really, Inquisitor, I think you're only trying to get my attention and who can blame you? I am bloody gorgeous._  And a shitty healer, it would seem. The injury is a nuisance. Most recently it interrupted her happy reunion with Josephine. Her touch makes Evelyn delirious.

"The pleasure of my company?" Josephine asks. "Are you sure you are ready for such an undertaking?" Her hand hovers over Evelyn's wound before catching her eyes. "I have no wish to hurt you."

Josephine crooks an arm around her neck and drags her down for a kiss, slow and smoldering. She smells of perfumed water, her skin silken. Every touch makes Evelyn feel wilder than before. She yearns to kiss her everywhere. This is the longest she's ever spent with a noble woman without having undressed her. It is an admirable record, but one that makes her impatient and hot, restless. She presses kisses to the base of her neck, moving upward. "I'm willing to risk it if you are."

Josephine closes her eyes, her fingers squeezing along Evelyn's arm, her voice a purr. "You underestimate me. I am no stranger to games of risk."

"And yet you shudder to be seen with the Herald."

"Do not be foolish. You know, as well as I, that propriety must come before any dalliance."

A dalliance? Is that what this is to Josephine?  _It's all it should be to you._  Why  _can't_  they be seen together? Is Josephine afraid she'll ruin any potentially arranged marriage?  _As if that stops nobles. As if that stopped you._

Evelyn doesn't like looking at her and seeing the faces of the noble women who came before, echoing the same rehearsed lines. It's no matter.  _Enjoy her. Enjoy yourself._  But she can't help but think. If she asked to see one of Josephine's letters to Blackwall, would she share them? And if they confessed some grand love, would it matter? No. Would she persist? Yes. It would be no different than before. If only she could turn her mind off.

A vigorous kiss, fingers clenched with fabric, bodies crushed together until Evelyn feels the tearing in her stomach again. She tries to push past it but the pain becomes unbearable. She pulls away. They pant for breath. Evelyn swears, apologizes, sits at the end of Josephine's bed, mouth dry, body tense with desire, mingling with the ripples of pain moving through her.

Josephine regards her with caution, longing. "Are you all right?" Her words are unsteady. Evelyn nods minutely. She's in need of more potions, more healing, though she's sick to death of both. "You are in desperate need of rest."

Evelyn smiles grimly. "That is the last thing I'm interested in right now."

Josephine laughs, soft and throaty. "It seems that once again you will retire from my chambers empty-handed." Evelyn flushes at the wording, wondering if they were her intent. Could they be? Would the uptight diplomat say such things? Is it innocent? Who is she? "I worry you will think me a poor hostess."

"What's the opinion of a brute worth?"

Josephine places a hand on the bed, bending down to kiss her. "You would be surprised at the power a brute can wield." A moment. "Is there anything I might get you? It is the least I can do, considering you suffered this injury on my behalf."

"Something like flowers or chocolates?"

"I am of the mind that you do not favor either of those." Josephine touches her face. "You do not know the lengths I will go to please a patron."

Evelyn is unexpectedly flustered. She brings a hand to her stomach, frowning at the waves of pain coursing through her. The blade went deeper than she imagined, it must have if it keeps tearing. Perhaps she ought to rest as everyone has recommended. "I think you're all talk, ambassador."

"Now you are daring me."

There is life in her voice that Evelyn has not heard before, a spark in her eye, impish and ready for mischief. Evelyn doesn't recognize her, the woman kneeling before her, transformed. She laughs nervously. "Right. Well then, Lady Montilyet—I trust you'll have no objection to taking off your clothes." She waits for a slap, for anger but only receives a searching look in return. Her heart rams fiercely against her chest.

"My clothes?"

She can barely speak. The joke-not-joke already gone further than she anticipated. "I want to see you."

Josephine stares breathlessly before turning, as if to give her a view of the back of the dress. She reaches behind and finds the golden clasp at the back of her neck, delicate and small, that holds her dress together. "I think you'll find that I'm a woman of my word, your worship." A flick of her fingers and the clasp comes undone. Fabric flutters free, unraveling like a ribbon around a gift. The rich olive tone of her back, graceful, smooth and supple is exposed. Evelyn sits very still, a woman possessed.

* * *

He jumps to see her.

It is early morning. The sun has barely peeked over the horizon. Josephine shuts the door behind her and smiles anxiously. He has gathered another bouquet of flowers for her. It is the first time she has caught him in the act of placing them in her office. It is shocking, mortifying… exhilarating, this secret game of courtship. Blackwall turns away from the desk. He wears a drab overcoat. His eyes hold such sadness. What lies behind them? If only he could tell her what haunts him. But what if comfort were required? Would words be enough?

He stands awkwardly. There are small tears along his rain specked coat. His boots are muddied and scuffed, his hair disheveled. A wonderful man but not one she could present to proper society. His beard could be trimmed, the tangles taken out of his hair, his clothing changed and it would make no difference. Sometimes she resents being a slave to etiquette. "Ser Blackwall. What an unexpected surprise."

"My lady. I had not anticipated you'd be up so early."

Neither had she. Another restless night, jumping at shadows and comforting herself with recent memories. She recalls the excitement she felt at undressing for Evelyn Trevelyan. It is a thrill that had long been forgotten and now she cannot imagine how or why. Just as she cannot determine why she so often rebuked the Herald. Are they not allowed their diversions, their games? They work very hard. They're nobility. What is a little private company between associates? Not that she has ever taken such company outside of the Game. But it seems to her, that it must not be very different. "I confess I have been sleeping poorly."

"Then my good fortune comes at your expense." He moves closer and Josephine tells herself not to notice the mud he treks about the office. He notices when she does. "I thought I'd been so careful—I'll clean it up. Maker's balls—" another grimace, "please excuse my—"

"It is all right," Josephine steps to him, touches his hand. He stills, their eyes meeting before she becomes flustered and moves away. Coy games are one thing. This… quite another. "The floor has been in desperate need of washing. I will make the arrangements today." A beat. "I received your letter." She will not tell him Evelyn read it. "Thank you. Your words give me courage." She goes to the flowers and touches them. Evelyn is jealous of this. But why be jealous of something that can never be consummated? What is between her and Blackwall is small and… warm. Quiet. Certainly nothing a woman like Evelyn is prone to envying. She wonders if Blackwall would be jealous of the physical relationship she and Evelyn share. But what is physical affection to such deep letters?  _What are letters to such physical affection?_  She feels a tart, even if a rather liberated one. She blames repressive Antivan culture and the wild influence of Val Royeaux for her small rebellions. "The flowers are so beautiful."

"I'm glad you like them." His voice is a soft sort of growl, ready to menace those who might menace her.  _And yet it is the Herald who nearly died for you._  Yes. And now she has a troublesome injury. Blackwall would have suffered the same for her. Again she wonders if it was gratitude that pushed her into Evelyn's arms. The thought of her lips along her wrist and palm on the mountain. Her hands on her arms the other night, preventing her from disrobing further.  _It appears you are not all talk, ambassador._ A kiss to her bare shoulder. The words more than the kiss elated her. Blackwall studies her. She flushes, as if he might have read her thoughts. "Are you well?"

"Ah, yes. Yes." She thinks of Evelyn's mouth on her own, their harried breathing. It has been so long since she forayed into matters of seduction. Is this wrong? No, why would it be? Blackwall knows as well as she that nothing can come of them. They are of different stations. As for Evelyn—well… they are nobles and nobles do like to play. There is a rhythm to these matters and everyone plays their part. That routine is reassuring. Blackwall stirs her heart. Evelyn… other places. But Evelyn's rare smiles  _do_  make her heart flutter. How discomposed she becomes at such unexpected surprises.

Josephine accepted Evelyn's challenge the other night and bested her, defied what notions she had. It was tremendously satisfying. Blackwall is another matter. He never questions her. That brings its own satisfaction. He has been a gentleman throughout. His letters are thoughtful and romantic. It would be a shame to give them up. No one has ever spoken so gently to her without expecting anything in return. Sometimes she reads his letters late into the night.

"What of you, Ser Blackwall? I trust you are taking care of yourself on the battlefield?"

"I have. I'll admit, I've been up more than a few nights thinking of our lady warriors. It used to be only Cassandra and Sera who threw themselves at the enemy like women possessed. Now the Inquisitor does much the same." Josephine looks up from the letters she's sorting. "She's been different since that Breach was sealed. I can't put my finger on it. Something like—she's fearless, maybe."

"Fearless? The Inquisitor?"

"That isn't the right word. There's something more." He shakes his head, not thinking of the right word despite how Josephine yearns to know. "The wound still gets to her but she doesn't let it slow her down. I thank the Maker every night she was there when she was. If something had happened to you…" She looks at the flowers and then at him. "I know it sounds stupid but I wish it had been me."

"Please, do not say such things. I would hold such guilt if you had been injured." She lifts a hand to her hair nervously. The conversation makes her uncomfortable where she once would have rejoiced. He looks at her curiously. "These extraordinarily early mornings never settle with me. I'm afraid I must attend to my reports."

"Of course. It was not my intention to overstay my welcome."

"I'm not sure such a thing is possible." He smiles with surprise, that blanket of sadness lifting from his eyes like a fog. "Good day." He nods and departs. With his leave goes her sense of security. She goes to the door of the great hall. Two inquisition guards are stationed there. She greets them before returning inside, cautiously opening the door to the war room hall. Two guards are now stationed there as well. The war room is empty. She returns to her office and sits.

She can't focus. There are a great deal of reports and letters to go through. Little by little they have been piling up. She has not even read the report on the situation with Minister Bellise. When the attack happened… she supposes she lost track of things. Josephine reads the letters from various dignitaries. Some are owed favors from the Inquisition, she will see to Leliana and Cullen for those. Others only wish to finalize arrangements and contracts now that their negotiations have finished.

There is some guilt at having neglected her work. With the coin they are due, they can procure merchants, purchase better armor for their soldiers. She redoubles her efforts. The day slinks away, her attention divided between her reports and the matter with King Markus of Nevarra and his advisor Virellius, a suspected Venatori. Leliana has made her opinion known: send the assassins. Cullen wishes to capture the advisor but there is clout to be had, recognition to be gained. Sending an ambassador to King Markus, letting him know it was the Inquisition who ousted the villain would be the best course. It would speak highly of her, and in so doing reflect positively on the Herald and the Inquisition. She'll relay her advice to the Inquisitor should she present herself.

The sun retreats and soon the shadows slip into the room. Josephine realizes and stands, her body stiff, as if atrophied, gone too long without proper use. The door to the office opens. Panic flares and subsides. It's the Inquisitor. A different tension moves in but the fear abates. Evelyn comes with a silver candlestick holder, the wick aflame, a light in the encroaching darkness, warming her face. She moves around the office, lighting the other candles scattered throughout before setting the holder delicately on the desk.

She stands before her as if offered for sacrifice. Josephine doesn't know if it's her intention. She wears black vestments, fine material, striking against her pale skin. Something new and fetching, graceful but threatening. The mark of the Inquisition is threaded in fine gold, the Andrastian heraldry weaved into the sash. Who else might she be but the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste? "I know how you like me in the candlelight," she says.

Her palms press to the desk, leaning over as if for a kiss, one Josephine desperately wishes to give. But the door is ajar and she is not so bold when the revelation of their involvement could risk much. "Your attire is very fine. Any visiting dignitary would be impressed."

"Is it only my dress that is very fine?"

"Are you fishing for compliments, your worship?"

"I am demanding them, ambassador."

Josephine touches the desk and rises, their fingers within reach. She smiles wryly. "To be honest… I did not think you had such distinguished taste."

"Vivienne and Dorian would assure you I don't. They've made it their mission to re-educate me." A beat. "Do you like it?"

Josephine lifts a hand surreptitiously, fingers glancing along the Inquisition insignia on the chest of the vestments before lowering it again. "Yes. Quite." It calls a smile to Evelyn's lips. What a curiosity that she is now dressing the part of the Inquisitor. In fact, the design must have been requisitioned from one of the most renowned designers in Thedas. "It is crucial to dress for the parts we play." Yet lately, it seems like Evelyn plays less. How does she feel about her titles? Josephine hasn't asked. It's likely safer that way. "You do not see me meeting dignitaries in stained overshirts, like Sera."

"Of course not." Evelyn grins. "You pretentious snob." Josephine sits again, dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand. Dressing for the occasion does not make her snobbish. "I know it's a more reasonable hour than we're used to seeing one another," bless her, she at least says it lowly so the guards can't hear. "But you've been here all day without a scrap of food to eat. Join me for dinner? I can have something brought. Say the word."

Ah. So now she is beginning to realize the privilege her position brings. Truthfully, it is only a return to what she has always known as a noble, what Josephine has known as a noble, having servants, cooks, under her command. People who fetch things and allow her to keep her hands soft. "Is that wise?"

"We can have dinner, Josephine. People won't think we're screwing." Ah, that word. Josephine's nose wrinkles. No, they are certainly not doing that. Yet. She mentally objects to the word. "There are plenty of rumors going around. Not one of them involves us. Your discretion is exemplary."

Josephine rifles through letters. "Does that bother you?"

"Does it bother  _you_?" Josephine looks up at her. Evelyn touches the flowers on the desk. Josephine's face heats. She cannot ask her to leave them alone. "How pretty."

Josephine picks up a letter. "I have a great deal of work to do. Perhaps we should reconvene at a later hour." Disappointment etches Evelyn's face. Odd. "But I suppose… I would work better with something in my stomach. If you were to have something delivered… I would not object." One of those rare smiles. Josephine's heart flips. "And a bottle of wine, please."

"Your wish is my command."

She leaves before Josephine can roll her eyes. What does she mean by that? It's pure nonsense. In fact, Josephine is sure Evelyn Trevelyan goes out of her way to do the opposite of what she wants. The severity of the shadows become more prominent with the Herald's absence. Josephine pulls the candle holder closer and picks up one of the rolled documents. The wax seal has been broken, which of course means that Sera has gotten into it. That imp is out of control.

_7, Solis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Minister Bellise was at the party as expected. Fortune favored she met me outside as I would have hated to wade through that group of nobles. As for Bellise, she was snobbier than I anticipated. She spoke at length and with contempt of the Du Paraquettes polluting the pool of nobility. However, she did agree to ratify the documents._

A poor report. Unexpectedly poor. Where are the details? Where does she outline the nature of their discussions?

Beneath it, she finds Sera's scrawl, similar to that of something etched crudely into a tree with a knife:

_Can't figure which is better, my way: arrows. Or the Herald's: screwing. Point is: we get people to do what we want. Didn't much like the 'minister's' house though. Bit creepy. Good food, though. Soft bread. Ate three loaves. The Herald is good for distractions._

There's a drawing of an open door, a mask on the floor. A small balloon of dialogue, slipping out from the crack in the door: 'Oh, Harold!' the 'a' crossed out for an 'e'. Also, a drawing of a loaf of bread. Cold settles into the pit of her stomach, her chest and head gone hot. She rolls the document up quickly.  _She only wanted some of my time. Something to brag about._  Something to brag about. Some of her time. Of course. Of course. She clears her throat.

Evelyn returns, a book in hand. She lifts it. A ginger woman on the cover with a sword and shield. "The food's being prepared. I ran up to my room to grab this. I've stolen it from Cassandra. I've got to know what this nonsense is about." Ah, yes, that delightful filth. Evelyn stops short of the desk. "Are you all right? You look… I don't know. Different."

"I'm quite fine, Herald."

"You're sure?" Another long look. "I don't believe you."

She could say it. She could argue. But for what purpose? She was writing Blackwall for weeks at that point. There was nothing between her and the Herald. There is hardly anything there now. And yet. The Herald did this for her benefit. Gave her body for  _her_. What a… remarkable thing to ponder. In any case, this is only a dalliance. She is not upset. "Take me at my word. I have no cause to deceive you."

She sets the book down on the edge of the desk. "Have you had bad news?" Her voice is soft and careful and yet Josephine cannot rid herself of the ice. "I've… been thinking about Blackwall's letter." Her fingers are curled, her eyes flint. Josephine is unsure of whether at the situation or the name. "If you don't feel safe here… Is there anything I can do?"

"If I knew, don't you think I would have exercised my authority?" Josephine half-expects her to leave. Her eyes have shifted, thoughtful. Injured. "Really, Herald," she puts some light into her voice, "I did not picture you for such a worrier."

"Is it so strange that I might?"

Josephine takes in her surroundings. The door is closed. She puts her hands on the desk and leans forward, enough to steal the briefest kiss. "I should say so."

The Herald smiles, surprised, and sits opposite of her, picking up the book anew. Just like that the matter is dropped, the misdirection successful. "I did request our finest bottle of Antivan wine." She crosses one leg over the other and opens the book. "And I've dismissed the guards," she flips through one page of the book and then another. "I hope that won't be a problem."

"It is no problem, your worship."

"I'm happy to hear it, ambassador."

These titles they throw at one another. Such courtesy, verging on discourtesy. Is it this office? She's unsure of who mocks who. Josephine picks up another letter. Her stomach is tight with hunger. She glances at the Herald, silver eyes focused on the book, that delicious scar over her lips. Warmth pools into her. "As long as you're here we might as well discuss the situation with King Markus."

"And his Tevinter mage. The matter's already been discussed."

"I hope you've come to a sensible decision."

"That depends on what you might consider a sensible decision. And I don't think you and I will agree on what that is." Evelyn snaps the book shut. "I can't concentrate on this."

A bell rings. The Herald stands and goes to the door, returning with a bottle of wine and two goblets. She sets one in front of Josephine, another in front of herself and pours heavily.

"That is too much."

"You're the first noble I've heard say that. Do you think I mean to take advantage of you?"

"To take advantage one usually is in need  _of_  advantage." She looks up at her. "And do not think you can distract me from the matter of King Markus with wine and your face." Josephine sees the beginning of a smile and forges forward. "Diplomacy is no game, Herald. It cannot be delayed, teased and toyed with."

"I have no interest in doing any teasing or toying with Markus. He's not my type."

More jests. Josephine picks up the goblet. She abandons the Markus matter. She'll follow up with the other advisors to see what the Herald's decision has been. "Speaking of types—you never related to me your negotiations with Minister Bellise. I have never heard of any noble doing an act of kindness out of the goodness of their heart."

"What about the beloved Herald of Andraste? She gives  _so_  much and asks for so little." Her eyes sparkle and then they turn away from her. "Must we speak of Bellise? The matter is done."

"I should very much like to know how you reached an agreement with her. The woman has a reputation for being insufferable."

"She lives up to that reputation." A shrug. "She wasn't too difficult to handle, if you must know."

She takes a drink, too large a gulp, the taste quite dry. It brings a flush to her cheeks. It is that, she tells herself, and not the words. "And how was she?" Josephine pins her eyes.

Evelyn has a drink of wine. "Hm? How was she…?"

"Please. You must know what I mean."

Evelyn sighs as if she were a nanny tired of a petulant child. She sets the wine down. "What is the meaning of asking questions you know the answers to?" A strange sliver of hope crawls into her voice. "Are you angry?"

"Angry? No. In fact, diplomacy does not always differ from the Game." She swallows. "There are trades."

"'Trades'? Is that what you do?"

A smile. "Did you enjoy yourself, Herald?" She controls the tremor that threatens her voice. "I am curious."

"You asked me to be amiable. You asked me to flatter her. Would you have had me give her our military? Would you have had me give her our secrets? I gave her the most insignificant thing I could think of. What should I have given her?  _What_  that we could take back?"

Evelyn's argument is a weak one. As if the body she gave, the night, the hours, is something so easily repossessed. Easier armies, coin, than that. But she cannot disagree that a body for what was meant to be restored is a bargain in comparison to what they might have given Bellise. It was the House of Repose that did not keep their word. "In any case, I must give you credit for how tenaciously you avoid a question."

"I always imagined you were too refined a woman to ask such questions."

"You deflect again, your worship."

She picks up the goblet of wine anew. "I enjoyed it. I know she's not a part of the Inquisition but I trust you're happy to make an exception." Josephine bites her tongue. "Are you happy now? Would you prefer I hated it, Lady Montilyet?"

Their eyes meet, a smile frozen on Josephine's lips. "I am well pleased that at least one of us benefited."

Evelyn takes a short drink of the wine. "Mh."

Dinner soon arrives. Roasted chicken and potatoes, thin carrots but savory, despite the unsavory conversation. They eat by candlelight, in silence. Josephine wonders if she is the one who is terrible at courtship or the Herald. Not that this is courtship. Her thoughts turn to Blackwall. A handsome man. Devoted. Tender. He would never think to lie with another while directing his charms in her direction. Still, Evelyn has a fair point. The House of Repose comes, ratified paperwork or no. If they had promised Bellise an army on a deal that fell through… The embarrassment, the scandal, the coup that would come could be considerable. Her attention shifts from the Herald's face in the candlelight to the flowers. Evelyn appears to only notice her dinner and wine.

They finish at last. The servants come and clear away the dishes, the clanking of silverware and plates the only sound in the last hour. When they have all been taken, the Herald remains reading her Swords and Shields, her eyebrows burrowed thoughtfully. Josephine returns to her paperwork. In between letters she looks at the Herald, draped over the plush chair before the desk. Why doesn't she leave her? Why doesn't she say anything? Josephine doubts this is how she intended their dinner to go. "How is your book?" Josephine asks stiffly.

"To be honest, I've been reading the same sentence for the better part of an hour.  _The guard captain eyed the pirate woman with suspicion_." Her voice is absent, distracted.

"Can you not concentrate?"

"Apparently I'm given too easily to distraction." How serious she sounds. "For example," she lifts the book, "this book contains a considerable amount of bodice ripping. I'm afraid my mind has taken to lingering over the imagery."

"The guard captain and pirate woman."

Some cheer crawls into her features. "You've read it! I find myself inspired."

Josephine feels her gaze and avoids it. "I hope you harbor no delusions." Some of her dresses cost more than what a handful of masons make in the entirety of a year. She stands, beginning to gather letters, collect her items for work back in her room. "Not that your injury would allow you such exertions. Thank the Maker."

"Thank the Maker that I haven't fully recuperated to rip bodices?" She tsks. "I would have you know that my wound has been reduced to another pretty scar. The Maker has truly blessed me." Josephine doesn't quite look at her. Wonders if she's sincere, mocking or both. "I could show it to you, if you doubt my word." Josephine laughs shortly, unsure if she wants to see. She crosses her arms as it to keep them from seeking. Evelyn gets to her feet, tossing the book to the floor. It lands like a slap, making Josephine fully alert despite the wine.

She moves, slow and predatory. Josephine backs away, hits the chair and then the desk. Evelyn's hands go to either side of her. "You came here with talk of dinner," Josephine murmurs, "and do not insult me with plans for 'dessert'."

Evelyn doesn't insult her with any response. Her lips go hot on her neck before catching her mouth. The kiss is viciously brief and Josephine finds herself short of breath, her lips parted and brushing against those of the Herald. "I can't stop thinking of the other night."

"What night?"

"Don't play coy."

She is so serious that Josephine nearly laughs with delight. "Was it not you that asked me to stop?"

"I would have torn myself inside out trying to get to you had you continued." They kiss. This is not the place for it and yet it happens. A thrill passes through Josephine. Like the first time she told a lie and someone believed it. The time she made someone in court believe she was someone else. The time she stole the mask of a patron and attended the gala in their stead. The childish delight of doing something she ought not to, of getting away with it. The satisfaction she has when getting her way.

Stop, she tells herself, but she doesn't, encouraged by the desire on the Herald's face. She brushes her lips to Evelyn's, her tongue a suggestion along the scar that has marked her. Josephine catches her eyes. "Might I see?" Her face is scalding, her voice hoarse, shy again. "Your injury."

Hesitation and then a nod. Evelyn exhales, still as Josephine's trembling fingers pull methodically at the belts and sash of her Andrastian vestments. Josephine joins their mouths again, persists in her quest until the vestments spill open. To think what such beauty hides. Evelyn is clothed beneath in considerably thin fabric. Josephine finds the bottom of the shirt. It has been years since she's done this with another; she is nervous, fearless, combined things she shouldn't be. The fabric collects in Josephine's palm and she eases it up, her fingers stopping over Evelyn's heart. There is a mean red gash, like a bloody crescent along ivory flesh. Josephine touches it, a fingertip first before her palm presses against it. It's warm and pulses with the beat of her heart. For a brief, alarming moment she considers letting her hand slide down further. "What a relief." Her syllables are breathless. To see the wound closed, to know that she will no longer bleed for her. "I have been so afraid."

"You're safe, Josephine. I promise."

They kiss heatedly, losing track of time until the light in the room has all but dwindled, the wax of the candles having dripped considerably. Letters have fallen to the floor, her wax seal, a quill. This is much too reckless. She blames the waves of dizziness, the Herald's kisses, her body, hot enough to melt, needy and willful after too long neglected. Josephine puts Evelyn's vestments back in order and the woman helps her collect her items off the floor, with an offer to walk her to her room.  _I promise not to linger._  A promise Josephine isn't sure she wants kept. They stop at the door to the grand hall, the Herald stooping to pick up a letter. Butterflies fill Josephine's stomach as her heart comes to a dead stop. Evelyn frowns and holds the letter out to her. Her gaze has retreated again, lost inward instead of looking at her. "Don't worry. I won't read this one, ambassador. Unless, you prefer I throw it into the fire."

She has been challenged but no matter her decision, she loses. She takes the letter. "That won't be necessary. Thank you."

* * *

Evelyn sits on the throne. The grand hall has been closed to the populace for the remainder of the day. Now all that remains is the setting sun, casting crimson shadows through the Andrastian stained glass. People come to her to settle disputes, to dispense justice, to gain her favor as the Herald of Andraste. She takes to it too easily. Perhaps the Maker is with her after all. She is a servant of the faith.

Leliana delivered a report earlier in the day. The Du Paraquettes are no more. The Montilyets are safe.  _Did they suffer?_ Evelyn asked.  _Was it…_ she searched for the word, the code to this sort of talk, a code Leliana is familiar with.  _Was it… clean?_  Leliana is veiled. Evelyn envies how she stands before you but remains invisible.  _You did not specify it be clean, your worship. 'Clean' is more difficult. Nor is everyone worthy of it._

No.

Yet her hands are 'clean'. She did not lift the blade. But she ordered the assassination. No. It was the Du Paraquettes who undid themselves by breaking their word. In any case, she is the Herald of Andraste. She was chosen by the Maker.  _Not Corypheus?_  No. The Maker works in ways that no mortal can understand. Who's to say she isn't doing the work of the Maker? Who would dare it and live long enough to even be branded a heretic? A crown has been commissioned for her. Her, with a crown. It's… She doesn't know what any of it means.

Recently she feels like flying. Other days she could stay in bed, hidden under the covers, never to come out. The door to the grand hall figure enters like an ink stain in the pool of red. As it draws closer she recognizes it as Blackwall. Her fingers tighten along the armrests of the throne. Recently the man feels to her like a splinter. There, felt, insignificant, a bother that's impossible to pull out. She searches him with her eyes, seeking letters and sees none. Maybe he has them hidden in his beard or his poor coat. Really, she'd like to slap him with them.

She gets to her feet. He stands at the bottom of the steps looking up at her. What does he see when he looks at her? What does Josephine? Why him? Why  _a_  him? Jealousy coils around her heart like a snake. Or maybe the snake is Josephine. Josephine who throws her letters into the fire without having read them but safeguards those of this commoner… this grey warden. The thought makes her ill. As hard as she fights it, there are days where it's obvious she's as pretentious as the nobility she derides. She reminds herself to do better, be better. Jealousy is a poison.  _The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil and grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born_. Yes. She must do better. She recognizes that grey wardens are renowned for their sacrifice, for their honor, qualities many would say she lacks. She cannot know that and feel contempt.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" Blackwall asks. "You scared the piss out of me."

"Your trousers look dry. Visiting Josephine?" Their voices echo.  _Visiting Josephine, Josephine, osephine…_

"What gives you that idea?"

"If you go past that door," the very door he stands beside, "you go to mine." She takes a step down and then another. "She's prettier than I am."

He chuckles. "That's a matter of opinion. Half the men in this camp are in love with you, if you haven't noticed."

She hadn't. He hasn't answered the question. "For what it's worth, I think she likes you."

"That would be an undeserved kindness." They gauge one another. "I expect you've been kinder to Lady Montilyet than you have been in the past." She smiles, her hands and chest gone hot. "I know how little credit you give her work."

"Does she tell you how little credit I give her work?"

"Truth be told, Inquisitor, she doesn't mention you at all."

"Ah." The same smile, held far more precariously. She could confront him. She could throw… whatever is happening between them in his face. What if he knows? What if they laugh about it? What if… She can't. She forces pep into her voice. "I'm off for a pint. Later, Blackwall."

She leaves the great hall, her footsteps echoing loudly behind her, roaring to a drumming song in her ears. Outside the air is unexpectedly brisk. She moves to the training grounds, all of Skyhold painted in a muddy red, the black of night settling like soot. She picks up one of the wooden greatswords, much lighter than what she's accustomed to, twirls it once, the way she was taught in the templars before swinging, letting the momentum carry the weapon. Another practice dummy is eviscerated, the wooden pole holding it up snapping in half under the force of the blow. Straw falls like potpourri.

She frowns at it, disappointed.

"Cousin!" Evelyn looks up. Dorian saunters over. Cousin, he says. They're barely related. "Don't tell me you're getting your finery filthy and sweaty," he makes a face of disgust, picking up the tail of her jacket.

"Don't you traipse through the countryside adorned like a peacock?"

He scoffs. "Yes, but I'm well versed in outstanding fashion and have a considerable wardrobe. You're just getting started." He lifts a hand, flames encircling it. How fascinating that it doesn't burn. How do mages control themselves? How, when anger boils through them? It's a wonder they're not all abominations. What is it like to have so much control? So little of it? "Mind telling me what you're planning on butchering in the darkness?" He looks at the practice dummy. "I hope that's not your inner templar coming out." She looks up at him. "And don't think there isn't a mage here who doesn't know it." She sighs. "Come, come, get out of the muck. I refuse to let you soil one of your few decent vestments." She drops the practice sword, happy to go with him. "I have a bottle of Tevinter wine with our names on it. I'm not sure  _how_  Josephine got it imported. I'm fairly sure there was blood magic involved. But from what I've heard, our darling ambassador wields something even more potent."

"Can we not talk about Josephine?"

"Certainly." He looks at her cautiously. "This is an excellent opportunity to turn the conversation back to me." He lifts his hand so the flames caress his face. "Don't I look magnificent in firelight?"

Evelyn smiles with amusement before bitterness dims it. She is growing tired of candle light. "You look  _radiant_ , Ser Dorian Pavus."

"Admittedly, there isn't  _any_  light that doesn't take a shine to me. Even the Fade rifts! I caught a look at myself in your armor in the midst of battle. I'm remarkable." He chuckles merrily. "You're not so bad yourself. You know," he whispers conspiratorially, "we're not  _really_  related."

She laughs, taken aback. "Erm. How much wine are we planning on having?" Dorian, as far as men go, is a beautiful specimen. He is astonishingly attractive. Almost confusingly so. He flirts constantly but she never sees his head turn in the direction of a woman unless she happens to be wearing a particularly stunning outfit. He doesn't get along with his family. She wonders how alike they are.

"Enough wine for an unforgettable night. Or a forgettable one." He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Why don't we round up some of the others? Bull?" She frowns at the thought of the qunari. He follows his regimen so fiercely. Their people aren't even people. They're slaves to doctrine, slaves who can't dream of stepping out of line without suffering greatly for it, "and Varric, of course. Sera, should be there—as much as she'll be a pain in my ass. Literally. She leaves those fucking arrows everywhere. What about Cullen?"

"That's fine," she says numbly. She's skittish around Cullen, even if he's sided with her more often than not. He's given up his lyrium. He hasn't said but she knows it. That takes considerable dedication. She's seen the shine in his eyes, his sweaty, glistening skin. The affects of withdrawal. She knows how awful it is, how your mind feels as if it's getting stretched to the point of snapping—and she wasn't a templar as long as he was. What if one day he comes to the realization that he is a far worthier leader than she is? What if he stops following orders? What if they all do?

"Anyone else?"

They've returned to the grand hall now and her body stiffens to be in vicinity of Josephine's office. "We have to invite Cassandra."

" _Cassandra?_ She's so  _dour_."

"As opposed to our smiling Rutherford."

"Why would you possibly want her there? Granted, the woman has exceptional cheekbones."

"It's not just her cheekbones that are exceptional." She loves her honesty, craves it.

"A fine ass," he admits this more grudgingly.

"That wasn't—" Though she can't argue. Their conversation comes to an abrupt end. Josephine and Blackwall step out of her office. Evelyn glances back as if to turn and run.

Dorian clamps a hand on her shoulder, his lips against her ear. " _Him?_ The woman has been away from civilization for too long _."_ He lifts a hand to wave at them. "Ambassador! Speak of the Pride demon. I was just telling our dear Inquisitor how you have worked your magic to get the finest Tevinter wine to me. I swear, a drop of it is like walking into the Golden City! Without all the naughty darkspawn bits," he chuckles with amusement and Evelyn, despite herself, can't help a smile. Dorian fixes Blackwall with a grin. "Don't worry. No Tevinter wine for the grey warden. I know how that sort of thing is like the blight to you."

"The magister making jokes about blights and the sacrifice of grey wardens. I wish I could say I was surprised."

The men go back and forth. Josephine maintains a respectable distance from Blackwall. Maker, she's unreadable. What were she and Blackwall doing?  _You know what they were doing together._  Not quite. But she can imagine, all too vividly. Did he just finish giving her a vigorous fucking? On that desk, too. The bastard. She should exile him.  _Or you could be an adult and have a conversation with her._  That wouldn't work. Telling Josephine to stop… whatever is happening with Blackwall is entirely out of the question. They're noble women. Unmarried. This is all they can have. Scraps. Even if those scraps set her afire.

She is eager to get to the wine. Josephine catches her gaze and Evelyn looks away, focusing on Blackwall and Dorian who now stand closer than before. Blackwall is gloomier than ever. What the void for? Dorian is aglow from their arguing. Evelyn hears the voices of the chantry sisters, singing the Chant of Light. Their rich voices twine together, rising, filling the grand hall. A sense of calm begs to take the tension from her but she can't relax around Blackwall and Josephine. The situation makes her uncomfortable and she'd prefer to just leave.

"Allow me to walk you to the exit," Josephine says to Blackwall.

Blackwall scowls, moving past Evelyn and Dorian as the Tevinter continues to grumble about 'the hairy lummox'. It's a fight to not nod along with his assertions. Her thoughts flit away when Josephine's fingers wrap around her wrist, even as she moves ahead with Blackwall, continuing to speak in her cheerful tones. Evelyn looks down, her wrist gently tugged before Josephine's contact falls away. Evelyn's thoughts spin. She can't tell if she's angry or hopeful or both. Neither man notices.

"I've met better groomed mabari," Dorian exclaims before sighing heavily. "With  _less_  fleas." He lifts his hands, assuming, perhaps, that Evelyn might scold him for his tirade. "In any case, why not change into something more sensible? Firstly: I always insist on being the best dressed in any room. Secondly: Sera likes to throw things. Last time, it was a plate of mashed potatoes with the thinnest gravy I've ever laid eyes upon. At least, I think it was gravy." He blanches. "Why not put on those hideous beige pajamas of yours?" Evelyn grimaces. "On second thought: wear anything but that."

"I'm surprised you're not coming up to consult me."

He gasps. "Are you inviting me up to your private quarters?" He grins, toying with his mustache. "So I have taken the heart of the Inquisitor. And in record time, too. And here the rumor was that you're an impossible woman to tame." What? Who said that? "So, tell me. Was it my outrageously good looks or my winning personality? Both? Both!"

"You're exhausting," she waves him away, heading up to her room, his laughter chasing her. She stands before the wardrobe deliberating. Her eyes fall on the 'hideous beige pajamas'. Harritt gifted them to her upon arriving in Skyhold in thanks for saving him in Haven. She doesn't particularly like them but they're something else she doesn't have to think about and they make him happy.  _But you're the one who looks like an idiot._

She'll wear something else. She doesn't want to hear Dorian go on another extensive tirade on her fashion failures. She would prefer to save her collection of fine clothing for another time, even as she knows Vivienne has arranged for more to be sent her way, as well as enlisting a personal tailor for the both of them.  _One must be dressed to kill, my dear, in more ways than one._

Drinking with Sera is a risk to anything she might wear. She yanks out an Inquisition uniform. She wore it on the mountain while they traveled to Skyhold and has worn it several times since. It bolsters the soldiers' spirits. It will do. Better yet, she'll have a better chance of blending into the crowd. It would be nice to go unrecognized, at least for a night. She changes and stares at her reflection in the mirror, unsure of what she makes of it. Her fingers trace the scar on her lips before she shakes her head and runs down the stairs to the grand hall. "I know, I know," she says as she flings the door open, "I hurried as best as—"

The grand hall is empty. Only Josephine remains. Josephine, who visibly startles to see her, taking a physical step backward. Evelyn glances behind her. No one's there. "Where's Dorian?"

"I informed Ser Pavus that there was a diplomatic matter I had to speak with you about. Privately."

"Is there?"

"Why are you wearing that?" Her eyes dart over the material, sizing it up. "The material alone…"

Is scratchy, worn, the colors faded. She hates it. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing." A finger along her brow. "It is good of you, to support our guard. May we speak?"

"I'm meeting Dorian for drinks." You had no right, she wants to say, to send him away. But truthfully, she doesn't want to fight. She isn't ready to be cast aside just yet. "Can't it wait?"

Her lips tighten, her fingers twined together. "Yes. Of course. It was… rude of me, to presume. Another time, Inquisitor." A nod and she retreats to her office. Evelyn listens to the soft click of the door and begins the journey to the tavern. She hasn't reached the grand hall exit when she turns back, muttering angrily at herself. What the Void does Josephine want? It doesn't matter. She tells herself she doesn't want something hanging over her head, she'd prefer to get drunk in peace. Yes, that's all.

She takes a breath and knocks on the office door. She expects a call beckoning her inside but there is only silence. Evelyn pushes the door open. Josephine is at the desk, once again, appearing to be startled. "Why didn't you answer?" Evelyn asks.

"I…"

Evelyn moves further into the office. Everything looks to be in order. Maybe she and Blackwall didn't have 'relations'. Or maybe they had them elsewhere. Maybe they had them on the floor, against the door. She looks around suspiciously at the furniture before settling her eyes on Josephine. "What's the matter?" she sounds more impatient than she is.

"I did not intend to keep you from your drinks, Inquisitor."

"Sure you did. I'm here now." She moves closer. "What is it?" No doubt it's another long list of chores. Thinking of everything that needs to be done, contacts to make, contracts to be forged, negotiations that need completing, make her want to drink her way into oblivion. It is endless and exhausting. Bludgeoning their way to peace is a far easier task. She mentally lists everything that needs doing, the order in which it ought to be done and hopes Josephine has mercy and summarizes matters quickly.

Josephine moves from behind the desk. "Why did you not tell me the matter with the House of Repose had been resolved? That my family was safe. That my… trading status…" she slows, swallows. "Why did you not tell me any of it?"

Evelyn supposes she didn't tell her because she was irritated. Something about their way has always been hot and cold. Time together, time apart, time together and then apart again. It makes Evelyn feel like a lunatic. Blackwall makes her feel like a lunatic. The thought of Blackwall and Josephine makes her feel like a lunatic, which is ridiculous. All Josephine is good for is getting her scars. But her eyes, her warmth, her lips have cast a spell. Maybe she only needs a fuck to get her out of her system. Maybe her only allure is that she keeps her at a distance. But Evelyn doubts it and the thought makes her feel guilty. "I thought Leliana would tell you."

"She did. And none of the details." Another wringing of her hands. "Truth be told, I do not quite believe it. How am I to know,  _really_  know that the House of Repose won't come again? I was so relieved last time and then…" she looks at her again with caution.

"Why do you keep looking at me that way?" She acts as if she's dressed up like Corypheus. Or Sera. Another cursory glance at her uniform to search for stains and she stops, thinking of Blackwall's letter.  _I see the way you flinch when the Inquisition guards draw near._  Oh. "Sorry. I wasn't… Should I change?" Josephine shakes her head, paces. "You won't have to worry about the House of Repose anymore."

"How certain you sound."

"Every once in a while I know what I'm talking about." She draws a breath. "Josephine…" And suddenly she doesn't know how to go forward. "Once the matter of the contract was resolved… I… enlisted them. In a sense. The House of Repose now works for the Inquisition."

The faint light is enough to see the dipping of Josephine's eyebrows, the way her lips have parted in question. "You have… hired the assassins who made an attempt on my life?"

Oh shit. When she puts it that way. "Not—not like that. We've struck a bargain with them. Anytime a contract on any member of the Inquisition surfaces, we pay the sum and then some to handle our would be assassins instead."

"That is… how did you even manage to convince them of such a thing?"

"Coin. A lot of coin. Enough… to buy you two of your pretty dresses," she laughs nervously and isn't sure if it's the darkness or Josephine's mastery of control that makes it impossible to read her thoughts." And I might have intimated that should they disagree and side against us in this request, they might be branded heretics and an enemy to the Inquisition." Contemplative silence. "I might have also intimated it is not wise to be the enemy of the Herald of Andraste."

"Oh."

"The Crows have already been spoken to should the House of Repose get out of line. I thought—" How easy it had been to make the decision before. She and Leliana came up with the resolution in near record time. They were well pleased when both houses agreed. "I thought… for matters of expediency, it's best to have some of our people in each of the nations."

"Assassins?"

"Yes. For when diplomacy fails." Josephine reclines against the desk, her hands gripping at the edges. "I thought you'd be pleased." Didn't Josephine ham it up with the assassin of the House of Repose? "Are you pleased…?"

"I am… unsure." She bows her head for only a moment. "Why not speak to me about this?"

"I was afraid you'd say no. And I'd have to do it anyway. I shouldn't have asked if you were pleased. It doesn't matter. It's done. You're safe. And we now have access to two powerful guilds capable of handling some of our ugly business."

"Does it occur to you that we have more options than 'ugly business'? Why am I here, Herald? Why, if you won't don't assign any value to what I bring to the Inquisition?"

There's the Antivan temper. Now when she doesn't want it. Her face flushes with anger. "Who said that? Blackwall?"

"Why bring him into this?" She sits up, bristling. "This is a conversation between us."

"Where else could it have come from? He's the one who runs his mouth with that rubbish. 'Have you taken care to lick the ambassador's arsehole today, Inquisitor, did you know she pisses perfume'," her impersonation is no better than Sera's, " well, he didn't say that," she rambles, "but almost." Why the bloody void did she come here?  _Why_  didn't she go for the drink?  _Because you're a bloody glutton for punishment._  Josephine fixes her with a withering stare. "What the Void was he visiting you for earlier?"

"What Blackwall and I do, Herald, is not your concern." They glare. "In any case, I did not bring you here to debate."

"Why  _am_  I here?"

Josephine walks, her fingertips touching. She looks contemplative and arrogant, she looks like a queen. "Leliana assured me that the matter with the House of Repose was taken care of. However, she did not provide me with the details. She has always been forthcoming. This time, she was not. Was that under your direction?"

"Yes."

A nod to herself. She stops moving. "I do not wish to know what was done to lift my family back up. But I must know, even as I fear I already do. The last thing I want is to have that suspicion validated. But it is a matter of integrity. I must know. I must live with it."

"What do you think happened?"

Josephine frowns gently, looking at her. "At first, I assumed that the contract had been destroyed, as Leliana originally suggested. However, given her evasive responses, I concluded that it must have been something more. The Du Paraquettes…" Her frown deepens. "Do they live?"

"No."

"Did you give the order? Or was it Leliana?"

"I gave the order." Josephine exhales slowly. Evelyn licks her lips. "If I know you, you've done your research on the family. The boy lives. Off to the chantry and then the templars." A life of a commoner stolen, a life of nobility stolen, a life of his own making stolen. Josephine looks at her. "I'm not sorry. I'd do it again." She would, even if she isn't sure why she did it. Would she have done it for anyone else? For Cassandra? For Dorian? She doesn't know. She killed a family to restore status. She could have destroyed the contract. She could have destroyed the contract and found another way—a way that would have left a child with parents, a family intact.

Her throat is painfully tight, as if a noose were wrapped around her neck, a heel to her spine, pulling back tight. Was it weakness to not kill that boy? What if he finds out? What if he comes back angry? What if he comes back one day when she's old and she's grown tired of waiting? She thinks of that Envy demon, how he thought to utilize her power, her position. No, it's different.  _Is it?_ This was for Josephine. Not her.  _Was it?_  She resists the urge to lace her hands, drop to her knees and pray for guidance, pray for forgiveness.

Josephine treads closer. Evelyn braces for the slap. Josephine cups her face, lips brushing along her cheek, stopping a trail of hot liquid. "You are so kind."


	11. Burdens

_Come see me before you go._

The Inquisitor is headed to Crestwood. As much as Josephine enjoys travel, she is happy not to be going. Crestwood is a dreary place, small and inconsequential. The inn is ghastly. The residents are weary, drifting like spirits through the village.

The Inquisitor's journeys are lengthy and frequently dangerous. Evelyn once said she thought of her every night while she was away. Josephine assumed she'd not think of her at all but perhaps she does not have as firm an understanding on the Inquisitor as she thought. The woman grows more confounding the longer she knows her.

It has been near a day since Josephine asked that Evelyn come see her. Josephine worked late into the night waiting. Eventually she retired from the office, sure to light the candles in her chambers, her small signal. She worked on a few other matters before sinking into the bathtub. Evelyn did not come see her. Josephine puzzles it over, vexed. It isn't a surprise that the woman would not keep her word. Even if… Josephine breathed the words to her when they separated and Evelyn did not make any promises.

Is she as unreasonable as Yvette?  _Your sister is a child. I hope you are wiser._  Her fingers drop beside the tub to pick up a glass of Antivan wine. As she oversees a great deal of the orders, she holds some sway over what is imported. It is a small luxury but one that makes the alienation from civilization bearable. That, Blackwall, the Inquisitor.  _She is not coming._ There's a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach not immediately identifiable: disappointment. She sighs.

She lingers only a little longer, finishing her wine before rising and slipping into a plush white robe. The trip to Skyhold was difficult, but as the Inquisition grows in status, so does their coin purse. Everyone must eat and have their proper equipment. However, it cannot be questioned that there are members of the Inquisition who benefit more than others. She is one of them.

She stands at the window, staring at her reflection, damp hair framing her face, spilling in waves past her shoulders. In the dim light she cannot tell what color to assign her eyes. Light twists, reflected in the window and she turns. The Inquisitor has arrived. She holds her position at the door, slipping it shut behind her. She has come before dawn but only just barely.

With her family safe, the guards are no longer stationed at her quarters. Her status is restored. Josephine did not delay in beginning to establish the necessary connections with merchants and importers. The Montilyets will be la crème de la crème again. It is not only a matter of her financial future. It is a relief that she and Herald now have some semblance of privacy. She is aware that gossip is not limited to women. The guards have seen both Evelyn and Blackwall visit at unreasonable hours. It was a heavy weight now lifted. She only hopes they will do her the courtesy of keeping their mouths shut.

Josephine goes to her, walking over the thick, plush rugs in her chambers to stone, chilly from the brisk air that penetrates the walls. Evelyn smells of soap. Cold radiates from her armor. Was she on the precipice of leaving before deciding against it? Josephine straightens her back, looks up at her face. "I did not think you would visit."

The silence between them is a wall. Eventually, she speaks. "You asked."

Josephine reaches for her hands. They're gloved. Cold to the touch. Josephine remembers that she wears a robe and nothing more. Her face burns. "How long will you be gone?"

"I'm not sure."

"Who will join you on your journey?"

A flash in her eyes. "Cassandra. Dorian." A beat. "Varric." Josephine nods nervously. "Why did you want to see me?" Josephine doesn't know. She only knows that she wanted to see her before her departure, that she has begun to think of not having her in Skyhold, that she somehow, already, longs for her kisses. With no answer at her disposal, she deflects.

She joins their mouths, tugging her close. Evelyn's arms wrap around her, strong but uncomfortable with the armor she dons. Her hands slip lower, beneath the robe but there is no shock at her nakedness.  _The gloves,_ Josephine realizes, striking against her warm flesh. Their kiss grows ardent and Josephine's calves hit the edge of the bed. The Herald's gloves slide up along her thighs, the soft leather dizzying. Then, she's on her back.

Their lips remain locked, even as the Herald is conscious not to settle her weight against her. Josephine is grateful. With her heavy armor and she, wearing next to nothing, it would be painful; she would be left scratched and bruised. The sash on her robe is pulled before she can protest. It comes open.

Evelyn stops abruptly, staring at her naked body for what seems an eternity, the kiss broken, her breath splintered. Josephine is as surprised. Evelyn's lips move soundlessly—then—"Sorry—I didn't—" Josephine flushes, speechless once more. It was not the Herald's intention to disrobe her but she has. The candlelight is enough to reveal how red Evelyn's face has grown. Josephine touches her cheek—shakes her head, pushes herself up enough to kiss her again.  _What am I doing?_

She doesn't know. She is compliant. She is an eager participant. Evelyn's gloved hands move along her naked skin and Josephine lies back, stretching her arms behind her. She closes her eyes, focusing on the sensation of Evelyn's lips and tongue along her breasts, the juxtaposition of her steel armor, gloves. She is so careful. Why did she think she was a brute? How could she think that? She touches her, holds her as if she were something precious. The thought makes her pulse flare uncontrollably.

Evelyn's kisses slip lower and Josephine cannot tell her to stop. Her fingers clench at the pillows, digging deep. She sighs softly. Everything feels like a dream. The most wonderful, beautiful dream. Her breath builds, little by little. She had forgotten so many things. She had forgotten what this could be like. She has done it so seldom, so long ago, only while playing the Game.

The cold feels marvelous against her warm flesh, but Josephine wonders, what would it be like to have Evelyn's naked form pressed to her own? Something less experimental, more traditional, tangled in sheets. What would that be like…?

The Herald's hand slips beneath Josephine's knee, draping her leg over her shoulder. Warmth floods Josephine, pure, blinding sensation as the Herald's lips and tongue fill her. Josephine squeezes her eyes shut, head tilting back, bringing a hand to her mouth, teeth biting into the same palm the Herald scarred on a mountaintop long ago. This is better than anything she remembered.

Maybe, she thinks, because Evelyn is so experienced. Why else would it feel new? Why else would it feel like the first time? The sun is beginning to rise, spilling low light into the room. Josephine's eyes flutter open, despite how delirious she feels, how her limbs quiver. She brings a tentative hand to the Herald's hair. Evelyn lifts her head, her eyes pinning her, branding her, taking her breath, making her lose all thought and sense.

* * *

They settle into the poor inn for the night. The innkeeper retired hours ago and the group crowds around a small rectangular table with weak wooden benches, faded and bent after years of use. Rain leaks from the roof, onto their faces, onto the table, onto their limited food reserves.

Hawke saunters back from behind the counter, having opened a keg of ale and filled two pitchers. Evelyn is not blind to how Cassandra stares at her. Varric can't stop smiling. It's the first he's smiled in days.

Cassandra and Varric are grudgingly traveling together. Their argument about Hawke was vicious. Cassandra threw tables and chairs. Varric looked to Evelyn for backup—and she couldn't say a word. Seeing Cassandra so upset left her feeling sad and helpless.

_I want you to know, I have no regrets. If we'd found Hawke or the Warden, maybe the Maker wouldn't have agreed to send you. You're more than I could have hoped for._

Evelyn hasn't stopped turning the words over in her head. When she first heard them she flushed with… gratitude? Embarrassment? Would Josephine ever say such a thing to her…? Probably not. Cassandra wanted Hawke for the Inquisitor—not her. But she's come around… that's something. But what if Hawke  _would_  make a better leader? She's experienced with fixing what goes wrong—even if Kirkwall did go 'tits up' as Sera would say.

"I thought Lothering and Darktown were dreary," Hawke says. Varric starts to distribute the stack of wooden cups he grabbed from behind the bar. "You never take me anywhere nice, Varric."

"And this surprises you?" Cassandra arches an eyebrow, snatching a cup from Varric. "In any case—I – I am glad you're here." Hawke smiles and Cassandra blushes. "It will be easier to track this warden friend of yours—and—by all accounts—"

"My accounts?" Varric suggests.

"Not only but  _yes, some_." She scowls as if remembering she's angry. "Though why I trusted you—"

The vein in her neck is popping out again. Evelyn clears her throat. "Cassandra…"

"I think you were in the middle of flattering me—," Hawke fills Cassandra's cup, "please continue." Cassandra stares at Hawke wordlessly. Evelyn feels an annoying tinge of jealousy. She tries to focus on anything else. Dorian waves his cup at Varric, demanding ale. Varric fills it. "'By all accounts'," Hawke reminds Cassandra helpfully.

"By all accounts," Cassandra continues through clenched teeth, before her voice softens—"you have… a reputation for being quite capable."

Evelyn tries to keep her eyebrows from dipping. Dorian's mustache tickles against her ear. "I didn't know our grumpy seeker fancied women…! Fascinating! Let's ply them with alcohol and see if they tumble into bed together."

"Stop it," Evelyn hisses. She's sharing a room with Cassandra. She'd hate to wander into  _that_. Hawke and Cassandra have only spent the last several days together. It's possible she and Dorian are making assumptions. It's natural to be impressed by Hawke.

The remainder of the evening passes with too much drinking and not enough eating. Varric and Cassandra continue to trade barbs, though they simmer, the more beer they ingest. Dorian raises a cup to Hawke in mage solidarity. By the end of the evening, Evelyn makes the final determination that Cassandra has a case of hero worship or a crush on the Champion of Kirkwall. She struggles, wondering which she would envy more.

The companions retire one by one until only Hawke and Evelyn remain. Evelyn was mildly worried that Cassandra and Hawke  _would_  climb into bed together. She isn't sure  _why_. She's with Josephine.  _Not really_. No, not really. There's nothing real about them. She sits with the thought for moments before forcing herself to release it. She's grateful to Hawke, Cassandra and Dorian who have provided a good distraction. Why  _did_  she go see Josephine before she left? Because she asked. What did she think would happen? That Josephine would tell her she'd miss her—that she'd think of her?

What did Josephine want? A shag.  _Bleeding pillow princess._  Even if she was beautiful, even if she tasted sweet and sighed so lovingly. She has dwelled too long over it, despite her anger. She isn't sure whether it's directed at herself or Josephine. This isn't any different than it's ever been. She has no cause to be angry. It was… it was fine. So why does she feel like complete rubbish?

A drop of rain falls on her face. Hawke comes back with another pitcher. "Let it all out," she says with a grin.

"What?" Hawke points at her face. Evelyn wipes it away. "It's just the roof." It never stops raining in Crestwood. It's muddy. The buildings are falling apart. The villagers' faces droop. Evelyn rubs her eyes. Hawke pours her a pint and sits across from her. "We should probably go to bed."

"Together?"

"What?" Hawke smiles, pushing back the ebony strands from her startling blue eyes. The woman is attractive—and it would seem, more sarcastic than Dorian and Varric combined. Quite the accomplishment. But on closer inspection she seems tired, her eyes rimmed dark. She looks a haunted woman. "Thanks for coming along to help. I know you were trying to stay away from my lot."

"When Varric asks for something… I've always had a soft spot for him." She smiles wanly. "Besides, it's the least I can do. This whole mage-templar war is on me, isn't it?" Evelyn isn't sure. That war seemed an inevitability. "And now you're in a mess of trouble because of Cory. Bit of a prick, that elder god." She has a drink. "I've made a real mess of things." Does she believe it? Are heroes meant to be filled with such doubt? "Tell me. Is Cassandra always so awkward? Think she has a crush on me?"

"Erm. I don't know. Maybe." Evelyn fights the same sick feeling she gets around Blackwall.

"Do you fancy her? Cassandra?"

"No." Her face goes redder. As far as heads of political movements go, it's one of her more dangerous qualities. She imagines Josephine scolding her about her face revealing all, about the advantage the enemy could gain. The question should not consternate her. She wonders,  _if_  Cassandra were interested in women— _if_  Cassandra were interested in her… Is she settling for Josephine? Is she  _bored_? Would she wonder if Josephine were warmer? She doesn't know. How is she supposed to know? Anyway, haven't others always settled for _her_? No woman has ever wanted to give her her heart. "I mean, I did." She has another drink. "She wasn't interested."

"Maybe she was intimidated by the Herald of Andraste."

Hawke speaks with an easy confidence that Evelyn envies. Will she ever be so at ease with herself and her opinions? "I can't think of anyone who's intimidated by me."

"That's daft. You're the boogeyman. Didn't you know?" Hawke says it casually but without that spark of mischief in her eye. It isn't a joke. Evelyn pales. "But I am, too." Another smile. Evelyn realizes she's nervous now that they're alone. She's read Varric's book, heard stories about her, knows how Cassandra reveres her, thinks, in some ways, that she does too. A woman who pulled herself up from nothing, who had to make her own way. What isn't there to admire? "You were a templar." Does anyone not know? "Will we have a problem?"

"I'm one of the friendly ones." Hawke's eyes dim. Maker. What the Void happened in Kirkwall? The guilt prompts her to speak again. "I was kicked out." The fact has always disgraced her—now she uses it as a silver lining.

"Kicked out. That's typically reserved for the very nicest or the very naughtiest of templars."

"I don't think anyone's ever called me either."

"So which are you? Naughty? Nice?"

"I think…" Evelyn takes a breath. It feels like a lifetime ago. Her father rescued her. Their coin and noble status saved her. What he asked of her is something asked of all daughters of noble families. And still she walked away from the responsibility. What happened in the Circle shook her. She had to adjust to a new life. She carried guilt and sorrow like a soldier's pack. How could she be a lady while carrying that around? "I try not to think."

"Did you kill a mage?"

She remembers panic reaching a rolling boil within her. She brandished her greatsword, instinct forcing her into a choice she'd never considered. Three templars snapped their heads in her direction, drawing their weapons. She empties the remaining beer. Hawke fills it. "No."

A small, grateful nod. "Did you kill a templar?" Evelyn takes another long drink of the beer and massages her forehead. "I've killed lots of them." Evelyn shifts on the bench. It's uncomfortable and splintered. She looks at Hawke. She doesn't look like a murderer. "Does that bother you?"

Evelyn bites the tip of her tongue, not brave enough to be honest. Hawke finishes her cup of beer and refills it, draining the pitcher. They've been drinking all night but she looks perfectly even. Evelyn feels lightheaded and sleepy, wary of the rain soaked mattress she'll likely spend the night in.

"What's it like being the Herald of Andraste?" Evelyn thinks back as far as she can. It's possible she's forgetful. It's also possible Hawke is the first to ask. "I hated being the Champion of Kirkwall. I can't imagine having Thedas watching my every move; it was bad enough having Aveline on my ass. But having so many people depend on me… A city-state is more than enough stress. How do you sleep at night?"

"Not well," she admits.  _Like a brick!_  she tells everyone else. In the beginning she did. As time progresses, she finds it impossible to turn her mind off. She dreams of Corypheus, of Haven falling. She thinks of the mountain and all those they lost on the way to Skyhold. She is kept awake by the possibilities of their imminent destruction.

Hawke nods thoughtfully. "Do you have someone? To keep you company." Evelyn frowns. Yes. She has 'company'. She doubts that's what Hawke meant. "When we first met, you seemed all right. Cheerful enough. But you've looked miserable since we left Skyhold. So I wondered if you miss anyone."

Evelyn shakes her head as if to not only deny the claim but to wave the suggestion away altogether. How can she miss someone she doesn't know? She knows less of Josephine than she did when she met her. "There's no one in my life. No one special." It's what Josephine would want her to say. Is it a lie? Is it the truth?

"Something more casual, then?"

She fidgets. "No. Nothing."

Hawke searches her face, as if for cracks. "I'm sorry. It's a tough go of it on your own."

Evelyn shrugs, that familiar tightness in her throat settling again, a panicking sensation fluttering through her. Varric told her about Anders. He took her aside before they left for Crestwood.  _I know how you feel about Anders and believe me, Thedas agrees, but Hawke was close to him. She's lost just about everyone that ever meant anything to her and has enough to feel shitty about. Don't make me regret asking her to help us._

Evelyn wants to ask how Hawke bears it, how she can be strong, but doesn't know if the question would cause offense. She doesn't want to think of losing anyone. The Maker and Andraste are with them. They can't lose anyone. They won't. She wonders if she's only fooling herself. "It's not so bad being on your own. I mean, I really don't know what it's like to be with someone. Like that. Close like," she specifies, cheeks reddening again. She considers clarifying that she isn't a virgin but worries that will make it worse. "So—it…" Her tongue feels heavy. Is she drunk? Is she ashamed? "I don't miss anything. I don't know it to miss."

The response was intended to reassure Hawke, to make her drop the subject. Instead the Champion's eyebrows knit together, contemplative, sad—for her. Evelyn grits her jaw. What does Hawke bloody know about her, about anything? She doesn't want Hawke's pity. What has Hawke had that she hasn't lost? In contrast, Evelyn has everything. She has a family. No mother, but who hasn't lost a mother. She has several titles. She's recently bedded an affluent, powerful ambassador to the Inquisition. Not only that, the people love her. They don't know her. They don't know her and they're strangers but— what does it matter? It doesn't matter. She's lucky.

What does pity mean from the punching bag of Thedas? Maker. She doesn't want to think about it. Minutes pass in silence and little by little her anger melts away. It's hard to stay angry when Hawke looks so tired and alone. Evelyn looks at her and wonders if she's staring into her future.

* * *

Sera sits on her desk eating a peach. Juice runs down the side of her hand and she laps it up like a hungry kitten. There's something unapologetically vulgar about the woman. "Hey, you." She swings her legs. She is wearing the detestable plaidweave design and beaten boots. Josephine enters cautiously. Evelyn told her of the bucket surprise the elf had intended for her. Sera is like a mite, seemingly impossible to be rid of.

"Good morning." She moves around the desk, beginning to organize her desk. Sera cranes her neck wildly to watch her before realizing that shifting is easier. "I do have some visiting dignitaries on the way…"  _Please, evacuate my office._

"Right, right. So don't shoot them?" Alarm flares through Josephine.  _That_  is her first instinct? Here she was hoping the elf would not say anything disgraceful. "I found a letter you wrote Blackwall. It was in his man things." Josephine stills. Sera speaks as if they were discussing tea—or cookies—something irrelevant. The elf reaches into her dress and plucks the letter from her bosom. "You write pretty, you do."

_Why_  Evelyn has allowed the woman to remain in the Inquisition remains to be seen. She is crass and disrespectful, she is a thief and entirely unpredictable. And now she has stolen a letter. Is there anyone in Skyhold above such things? Josephine keeps her cheeks from blazing through an extraordinary feat of will. "That was not your letter to read, Sera."

"I know, right? That's what makes it fun." Josephine laments that she understands the thrill. Sera unfolds the letter and examines it. "Like the way you write. Nice like. Your words—they're like perfume. Perfume had a shape." A frown. "So, do you fancy him or not? Cause he's been going on about you.  _Lady Montilyet is a real lady, she is._  Gets this dumb look on his face like he just smashed it on a branch. Loopy like, yeah? That's why I got this peach. But then I got hungry. So I ate it." She chortles at that. These letters have caused her considerable trouble. Josephine wonders if the effort is worth it. Evelyn doesn't like it and now Sera is meddling, going on about a peach. What does the peach have to do with anything?

"Sera—please get off the desk," she touches a hand to the elf's back and she hops off spryly. "I implore you to return that letter to Ser Blackwall—and forget its contents." Sera frowns, even as her eyebrow arches, confusion mingling with anger. "Those letters…" she sighs softly. "They are only… la splendeur des coeurs perdus." The splendor of lost hearts. An emotional affair. Never physical. Never more. This time she has no control over it. Her cheeks darken considerable. She thinks of Evelyn's warm breath along her thighs, the silver of her eyes, everything about her, penetrating. Now, quite bewilderingly, she feels some semblance of guilt. Now, she thinks—she misses her. Why does she miss her? Why does she feel guilt?

"Don't know what… le… la—splendor… Whatever. Better to say it simple, yeah? Only rubbish things need fancy names." Josephine wants to argue but sees little point. The Qun is less stubborn than Sera. "You like him, say it right. Kiss or—I don't know. Touch your bits. Something. He really likes you."

Josephine's lips thin. She cannot say she likes him less. He  _is_  a grey warden. That carries significant weight during a Blight. And … with archdemons and darkspawn about… who can say that it isn't? It does grant him some status but grey wardens have an unsavory reputation. Should it matter, given their sacrifice? Still, it is strange. Wardens are not meant to involve themselves in political affairs. Blackwall is one of a kind.

And still her thoughts return to the Herald. Josephine collapsed against Evelyn the morning she left, breathing raggedly against her neck. Josephine felt her body and spirit soar higher than any chantry hymn. Her very essence was afire with something pure and light. An entirely… unexpected feeling. Evelyn kept a hand at the small of her back to steady her, and Josephine kissed her, tasting herself on Evelyn's lips, trembling as Evelyn eased a lock of hair behind her ear.  _I have to go._  Words filled with such sadness.

Josephine tried to collect herself, to find the right thing to say. Evelyn was gone before she could determine what those words were. Evelyn has been gone over a week now. It has been difficult to not think about her.

And she has forgotten what it is she and Sera have been discussing. Blackwall. Yes. "I have a great deal of respect for Ser Blackwall," Josephine says. Sera scoffs. The door opens and the man enters, followed by the emissaries Josephine sent to Orzammar to speak on the Inquisition's behalf. The dwarves nod solemnly but Josephine knows their negotiations were successful. Her eyes meet Blackwall's not a moment longer than necessary. He and Sera exchange the kinds of looks that signal a conversation to be had in the future.

Sera declares her boredom and tosses the half eaten peach at him. Blackwall flushes to his very ears. Josephine smiles. "Well then," she gestures to the seats before the desk and sits. Now is the time to discuss what unfolded in Orzammar. "Let us begin."

Their reports are extensive. King Harrowmont has not only pledged their most fearsome soldiers from the Legion of the Dead, but he has also bequeathed a considerable amount of gold bars to the Inquisition. Josephine is grateful to the dwarves' practical nature during these difficult times. She can hardly imagine getting such a reasonable offer from Orlais or Antiva.  _I will send my most beautiful dress coats, so the Inquisitor might be the most fiercely dressed in battle._  It reminds her, she has letters to attend to, thanking the nobles for their 'thoughtful' offers. She'll insist that such finery is too grand a gesture, and that a 'small' donation will more than suffice.

The dwarves leave and only she and Blackwall remain. Blackwall holds the peach Sera threw at him as if it were a hot poker. Josephine smiles. "I am well pleased the negotiations went smoothly. As you may know, dwarves have a reputation for being gruff but they, more than anyone, appreciate how grave our situation is. Once these Legion of the Dead warriors arrive I will advise that Cullen let you handle them."

"Me, my lady?"

There is a reason she asked he report with the emissaries. "Who else? Cullen may a commander and templar—but you are a grey warden. My studies have revealed that the Legion of the Dead bear many similarities with your order. I trust they will be more receptive to a man who has dedicated a great deal of his life to fighting darkspawn." Blackwall looks tense. "Of course… I know how you like to be out on the field with the Inquisitor. I would not wish to impose or take you away from your responsibilities."

"I don't know. There are benefits to being in Skyhold." She bites her tongue but is incapable of hiding her smile. "And…thank you, my lady. That is thoughtful. It would be an honor to work with the Legion."

"I've met a few, years ago. They are quite serious. You will not feel out of place amongst them." Even if those words cause him to smile and come closer. "Do promise we will not have a funeral for the identity you are leaving behind as is their tradition?" Color drains from his face. "Are you all right?" He nods. "As I was saying, when working towards diplomacy it is important to adopt some customs—but not all."

"Me, a diplomat." He laughs dryly. "I can't imagine it."

"I am beginning to find you do not give yourself nearly enough credit." She draws slow breath.  _Sera has stolen your letter._  "I brought these grey warden treaties of yours to the advisors. Blight or no, they will prove helpful to getting the Inquisition strong men and women—as well as the coin necessary to fortify them. I thank you for bringing them to my attention."

"It feels good to help, for a change."

"For a change? It is my understanding that grey wardens never cease their battle against darkspawn. It is a curious thing about these other grey warden disappearances. In any case, we are happy for your assistance—and well pleased that you have not gone anywhere. Still… if this is a Blight… It is concerning."

"Agreed. But wardens are tough. Whatever's happening, I'm sure they're in control of it." What confidence he has. Even with the House of Repose dealt with, his presence is comforting. "Perhaps it's best to run this Legion idea past the Inquisitor." A furrowing of his eyebrows. "She may have objections and I'd hate to create difficulties."

"What objection might Lady Trevelyan have?" Oh. Perhaps some, but not for the reason Blackwall thinks. Still… the Herald seems to be maturing in her role. Surely, she would understand. Surely, she would welcome anything that would take anything off her plate. Surely, she would appreciate any moment of free time. "That is considerate of you," a smile, "I will discuss the matter with her, as soon as I am able."

"I take it she's been in better spirits? I've heard the way she's spoken to you. And you stand there and bear it with the most gracious of smiles. I don't know how you bloody do it."

Josephine smiles wanly. "The Inquisitor may appear a touch prickly—but she is not so rough around the edges as you might think. Please, do not concern yourself. She has been kind." Her face floods with warmth. She picks up her quill, taken with an urge to write to her. A pointless exercise. She is not still long enough for her to write. "Blackwall—" he looks at her, his gaze a force. "Ah—Sera… is in possession of one of your more… personal letters. I asked that she return it to you."

He swears under his breath. "I'll speak to her. I hope you know—I haven't said a word to her—I… know this ought to be discrete. A woman like you—" Josephine holds the quill unbearably tight, her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand, finding that groove, that has become as familiar to her as a beaten path. "I know I'm not worthy."

Her heart beats madly, leaving her dizzy. "You must not say such things." Though she thinks she shouts the words they are barely a whisper, as if she has confessed some secret shame. True, he is not of her station but it does not make him any less worthy.

He comes closer, his concern plain. "Are you all right, my lady? You don't seem well."

"I am fine." His fingers touch her arm. "It just seems…" His hand at the back of her neck. "That, I—ah… I –" His lips against her mouth. She freezes and goes hot, cold, warm, betrayed as her lips tentatively part in welcome.

* * *

The scouts hoist the Inquisition heraldry flag up before driving it deep into the muddy ground. The pole wavers but sticks, the banner flapping gently and then wildly in the rainy gusts. It is another location in Crestwood claimed for the Inquisition, it is  _something_ , after the constant battle against corpses and the never ending rain and muck.

Cassandra speaks to the scouts while Dorian and Varric find sanctuary under a makeshift tent that was hastily erected. Hawke keeps her arms crossed, looking morosely over the land. Her so-called warden friend remains to be found. Evelyn wonders if they're just another dead person in her life and she's yet to find out.

Evelyn moves next to her. "The way Varric wrote about you, I thought you were less inclined to take things seriously."

"Thedas is on the verge of collapse. Exactly how hard should I be laughing?" She makes a fair point. Evelyn wonders if her foot will take permanent residence in her mouth so long as the Champion is near. Hawke focuses on the Inquisition scout. Rain runs down her face, having long soaked her mage armor. "So… Inquisitor. How about that. You run around planting flags and you say 'it's mine.' And that's that. It's yours."

The group of scouts admires the heraldry they've just placed. Evelyn glances at Hawke. "That's an exaggeration. We're not taking it."

"I've seen the Inquisition move through Crestwood. I've seen it move through Thedas. You've got your banners through a good section of Ferelden. You might as well be writing 'property of the Inquisition'."

"That's absurd. We're not thieves." Hawke continues to assess the situation. "These people are under the Inquisition's protection. We're watching anyone who threatens them. We're helping."

"Sure. But for how long? The Inquisition has got the coin, the status, the military and a bloody powerful figure leading it. These villagers couldn't fight off bandits. They decide one day, they want their land back, their lives back, they want the Inquisition gone, you'll leave your posts?" She makes it sound so simple. It's not simple. "How the Void could they fight back?"

"They won't have to fight back. They can have it all back when the time comes."

"And who decides when that time has come? You? Your advisors?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"What have I done? Think about it, Evelyn," Evelyn tries not to startle at the name, "the templars were here to protect the mages. And look how that turned out."

"Right. The templars. It had nothing to do with your apostate."

"There were injustices long before Anders did what he did."

" 'Did what he did'. Say it for what it is— Blew up a chantry and a revered mother— "

"And if you think I supported it—"

They're talking over each other, nostrils flaring.

Evelyn shakes her head. Honestly, she doesn't think Hawke agreed with Anders. Otherwise she wouldn't have ended things with him as she did. The Inquisition is meant to protect. Not threaten. It's mildly alarming that she didn't consider the power of the Inquisition before now. The Inquisition is meant to get bigger. That's the point. But how big will be too big? If it encompasses Thedas will it be large enough then? Who will be charged with the outposts they have? Who will monitor their scouts? She isn't stupid. She knows what happens when power goes unchecked. She dismisses the thoughts. No. Everyone is focused on Corypheus right now. They won't let their petty selfish needs become a deterrent. "It's fine."

"The injustices?"

"No." She sniffles in the rain, pushing back damp pale strands from her face. "Why do you twist everything I say?" Evelyn sees, what she thinks of as an infrequent smile, but one that must have been common in Kirkwall if Varric is to be believed. "Look, I didn't ask for this," she lowers her voice, lest the scouts hear, "but I have to run around, grinning like an idiot and pretending as if I know what I'm doing. I don't know how to be some fearless leader."

Hawke laughs. "Does anyone? We have to manage it, best we can. We have to pretend until it's who we are."

_You will become the liar_. Evelyn shivers, her breath fogging in the air. She moves through Keep Caer Bronach. The fortress is massive. Winning it back from the bandits wasn't easy. Her face has suffered some bruising but otherwise, she escaped unscathed. "It wasn't easy for you?"

"Oh, sure. My life has been nothing but silk sheets and bon-bons."

"You're a noble."

" _You're_ a noble. I have noble  _blood_ ," she scoffs slightly. "I'm no noble." A shrug. "My mother was an Amell. I suppose that's where all of that comes from." She frowns at the mention of her mother. Evelyn thinks of 'The Tale of the Champion'. A lunatic maleficarum killed Leandra. Maker. How can Hawke stomach her own kind after the barbaric acts they've committed against her? "I've never really taken to feeling that way. I grew up on the run and in abject poverty," a shrug. "You have three brothers. Are you close to them?"

"Not really," she apologizes. Her intention was to ask how she navigated the politics of any amorous affairs as a noble but now it strikes her as in poor taste. The previously dwindling rain falls again in heavy force.

They duck into the Rusted Horn, shaking off the water. They found the tavern and the controls to the dam hours ago. The lake is still draining. Evelyn isn't sure when they'll get to that damned rift but she knows that Cassandra has already sent word to Skyhold of the captured keep.

Hawke wipes rain from her face. "Are you close to anyone?"

"Not really." She hates how she repeats herself. "Maybe that's just my way." She thinks of Josephine. Is she close to Josephine? No. Not really. She's gone down on her. But what does that matter? She's not the first. She won't be the last. It makes her feel a bit stupid. It makes her feel a bit sad. What is 'close' anyway?

"You said. I'm sorry."

She hates Hawke's apologies. She looks out the window. Lightning forks in the dark. Evelyn turns and smiles, what she hopes is careless shrug. She's beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with her. People have always thought her strange. "You haven't told us much about this warden friend of yours. Do we get his name, at least?"

"You'll have your answers soon enough."

Hawke's hiding something. She turns from Evelyn and wanders the tavern, trailing her fingers along varying surfaces. Evelyn follows, tapping on the barrels, searching for alcohol. They ring hollow. "Were you and Anders…" Hawke turns but her gaze isn't sharp. She looks lost in thought. Thunder rolls. Pint glasses on the shelves rattle. "I know what happened. I don't know that I could do it." How can anyone be so strong?

"Evelyn. I don't want to talk about it." A breath. "I don't mean to be rude. Look. No one ever knows what they're capable of until they've done it." She goes behind the bar and picks up a glass, blowing out dust. "Stop beating yourself up."

"I haven't."

Hawke sets the glass down. Her smiles are glimmers. Looking at her reaches somewhere deep inside of Evelyn. She looks outside but the rain isn't letting up. "I wonder. Are you afraid of me because I'm a mage? Or are you afraid of me because I'm your future?" Evelyn doesn't know. "Maybe both?" She wishes she would get the same Hawke who chatters constantly when surrounded by a group, who quips and snarks on every remark made. Where is that woman? Which persona is the mask? She fears it's the other one. She fears she's going to end up jaded and lonelier than before.

"I'm not afraid."

Hawke presses her against the counter. Evelyn's hands come up to steady herself. It doesn't occur to her to escape. Hawke meets her eyes. Evelyn can only hold her gaze for a few seconds before she looks away. Hawke grasps her face firmly and forces their eyes together again.

"When this is done, they'll forget about you. They'll turn against you." Hawke smiles bitterly. Evelyn's heart races, fear pumping adrenaline through her. "How did you get that scar, Herald of Andraste?"

Evelyn tries to turn her face but Hawke doesn't let her. "None of your business." For months now she's lived a life where everyone knows everything about her. They've acted as if they were entitled to it because of her title. She won't give this. It's a little thing. It's everything. It's her downfall, this scar.

"Do you know that your mark has its own pulse? It flares," she reaches down and tangles their fingers, lifting Evelyn's hand, green light squeezes through her flesh. "It's as if," she thinks aloud, "you were bleeding magic. Magic and bits of the Fade. Funny, that, from a former templar. It makes me feel a bit lightheaded. You still don't know where the mark came from?" Evelyn swallows hard. She gets her bearings. She rips away from her. Hawke looks after her, to where she's retreated to by the entrance. "You really  _don't_ know how to be close to anyone." Her eyes are like glass. "It looks like the rain's stopped. Shall we go?"

* * *

_Leliana,_

_We have been hard at work in Crestwood. Things here are even more dire than we imagined. The dead had nearly overrun the town by the time we arrived. Not only that, but bandits have been terrorizing the village. I am happy to report that we have brought some measure of peace to the village though it has not been easily won. I admit, it is odd to be removed from you for such lengthy periods of time. We worked closely together for so many years in our service to Divine Justinia. I have no doubt that you'll keep Skyhold safe. I will do everything in my power to safeguard the Inquisitor. Keep me in your thoughts and pray for me. Varric has been insufferable._

_Cassandra_

Leliana smiles at the letter.

So, the Inquisitor has taken Keep Caer Bronach. It is a sizable victory. Better yet, it's en route to Val Royeaux and Denerim. Many nobles will be able to take refuge there and once amongst the Inquisition, they will be comforted, they will spend coin. Leliana folds the note back up and sets it with her collection of others. She will speak to Josephine about the triumph. She may wish to spread the news, if not embark on the journey personally.

Leliana is pleased that the DuParaquettes have been taken care of. Argent is a talented, capable agent, loyal to the Inquisition. If she doesn't tire of this life, she will go far. Leliana dreads to think of finding a replacement. No one can match the woman at killing, save her. Marjolaine, long ago. Leliana once killed for the Divine. Now, she kills for the Inquisition. She tells herself it's what Justinia would have wanted. In any case, it's necessary. As for the DuParaquettes—she would have done it herself, if there had been need.

Josephine has not been herself. Leliana anticipated her smiles would not be so brave once everything was put in its proper order. They remain firm. Her unflinching resolve is unsettling. Not that Josephine is weak. She has always been like some flawless stone. Beautiful but sharp, cutting, if not properly handled. Leliana can't help but think that there's something boiling beneath the surface, that despite the security of her family and their assets, she's on the verge of unraveling.

Leliana tracks her to their sizable library. Scouts salvage what books and knowledge they can as they move through the war torn land. Josephine has advocated for the preservation of art and historical documentation.  _You know how important this is, Leliana. Why are you not more upset?_  She hates when people ask that. Just because she hasn't thrown herself onto the ground, a sobbing heap doesn't mean she's not upset. Who isn't? Books were her childhood friends, after all. Dresses came later. Shoes, Tug, Sketch, Marjolaine… but the first love in her heart, outside of her mother, had been her books, her stories. They whisked her away to some happy pretend place. Princes, princesses, duels, adventure… They were exciting. They were a place where she did not have to think of all the sadness in her life.

When did her love for books and stories die? It wasn't when Justinia died. It was before then. She had to wall off pieces of herself in her service to Justinia. She only allowed love in her heart for the Divine and the Maker, to the exclusion of everything else. Walking into the library is disconcerting, similar to running into a jilted ex-lover who had been carelessly discarded.

Outside of the ambassador, the library is empty. The library isn't up to Josephine's standards but neither woman doubts that they'll soon have the coin to make the desired changes. Leliana finds her at a table, a collection of books scattered along it. There are a few loose pages and she dips the quill in the ink well, the smallest of frowns on her face.

"Josie."

Josephine looks up. For a moment, Leliana wonders if Josephine recognizes her. Then, she gathers herself and smiles brightly. "Leliana. I did not ever think you came this way."

Ah, she wanted to be alone. "I was on the hunt for my favorite person in Skyhold." Josephine's smile becomes more genuine, though Leliana does not miss the sadness in her eyes. "How are you?" It is a question they don't ask one another often enough. Leliana knows Josephine was shaken by the events in Haven and on the mountain. What a terrible thing to see so much death, but that is the way of the world these days and even the innocents must adjust.

"Quite well." A lie. "I am impressed with the collection our scouts have gathered." She lifts a book. "Look here. A book by Genitivi with a collection of the Dalish language. Is there anywhere the man didn't go, anything he didn't document?" She touches the book fondly. "This is a marvel." Her smile is unsteady. "But I doubt you came to listen to me prattle. Is there a matter that needs attending to? I hope I did not cause you trouble finding me."

"It was no trouble."

"Of course not. You, as much as the Maker Himself, are aware of the going ons here."

There was a time that Leliana might have frowned at such wording but no longer. Yes. She does know everything that happens in Skyhold. She wagers she cares a great deal more than the Maker. As such, she is aware of what is happening. There are agents she trusts to keep eyes on members of the Inquisition. She knows the unreasonable hours that the Herald visits Josephine. She knows Blackwall gives Josephine gifts. She knows Josephine sends letters. Josephine has not confided in her but her very actions are a confession. "Our scouts in Crestwood have sent word that the Inquisition is making considerable progress. They've claimed a number of lands."

"In such a short period of time? Remarkable."

"Yes. They've even taken Keep Caer Bronach. The location is a coup, as you know. Many nobles pass through there. It will be an excellent hub for information gathering. It is centrally located and well fortified. I thought you could get the word out there. Forget what people know of Crestwood. The Inquisition is there now. It will be safe. It will be… fashionable." Josephine smiles and nods. "I thought you could send a trusted diplomat to greet some of the nobles and make them feel at home. Unless you would prefer to go yourself."

"Has the Inquisitor found the Champion's friend?"

"No. Not yet. They're still in Crestwood sorting the situation out." Josephine is contemplative. Leliana stares at the paper in front of her, the ink dots scattered along the paper with no words written.

"I will see to my obligations. Perhaps… there is time for me to go personally." Her eyes are far away. She looks happy and miserable.

Leliana feels Josephine has gotten twisted into a situation she isn't sure how to untangle. "If that is your wish." A nod. She isn't sure the ambassador heard her. Leliana takes her hand, a gloved finger to her wrist, pushing it lightly to show the palm of her hand. There it is. That crescent moon scar of the Herald's bite. "Josie." Leliana pushes on the scar and Josephine lifts her eyes. "Is there something you wish to talk about?" That dazzling bright smile that Leliana doesn't trust. A smile that says 'ask no questions, everything is all right'. The smile that's used when everything is wrong. Her parlor tricks won't work on her. Not when Leliana's the one who taught them to her. "Whatever it is, it's all right."

Josephine gets to her feet, massaging the scar on her palm. She paces. Leliana watches her move. "I have done a terrible thing. Frankly, I feel as if I am going crazy." Leliana waits. She presses her palms together. "I kissed Ser Blackwall." Leliana smiles. Good for her. "I don't know what I was thinking…! To be clear, he kissed me but I allowed it and I _returned_  his kiss. I am… quite a despicable woman."

Leliana frowns. "It was a kiss, Josie. I chose you for the Inquisition for your painful integrity, yes?" Josephine looks as if Leliana's wounded her. "What's wrong with a little fun? You can do that with Blackwall. That and more."

"Are you mad?" she hisses. "He is—to say that he is a commoner is to put it lightly." She runs a hand over her face. "I should not have done that. I have been writing to him," she wrings her hands. "Which I'm sure you knew." Leliana's smile softens. "When we arrived at Skyhold I was frightened—and … yes, a little bored—but… he has been most kind and he has a fine face and he is honorable. A grey warden and… I don't  _know_. Maker, I don't know what I'm doing."

"There are more important things at stake than who the precious Montilyets are sleeping with." A sharp look. "You have been discrete. No one knows." Outside of herself and less than a handful of agents who will guard the secret with their lives. "You're with the Inquisition and  _removed_. If that is what you wish to do—"

"It isn't! I mean, it is," she paces, "but it isn't." More pacing, more wringing. "I  _hate_  this." Leliana's smile dims when she sees how Josephine's eyes glimmer. "Leliana, I must confess," she goes to her, kneeling at her feet and taking her hand as if she were a Revered Mother, "I have been…" her brows furrow. "I don't… I thought I knew what I was doing." Her forehead presses to Leliana's hand. "I have … been spending time with the Herald." Leliana considers telling her she knew all along but it seems important to Josephine to get the matter off her chest. "I know you suspected it in the beginning but I swear to you, nothing was happening at the time. She is—confusing and irritating and… sometimes… so wonderful—" a sigh. She takes Leliana's hand more tightly and looks up at her. "We are noble women. And… well… you know how noble women play."

Leliana palms her face. "Yes, I know."

"But she is the  _Herald_  and I…" She gets to her feet. "Everything is wrong. And the matter with Blackwall… I believe it troubles her and I have  _told_  her that there is no cause to worry for there is nothing between us. Either of us. I told myself that I am in the right. I cannot—allow others to know I have any personal involvement with the Herald. It would injure my word and it would injure the Inquisition. And my family's name is still…" She bites her lip, clasping her hands together again. "It was my position that this was… a diversion. With Evelyn," she says the name shyly. "And I have… we have… it was my … intention to keep things…" A shake of her head.

"How close have you been with the Herald, Josie?"

Her cheeks darken considerably. Ah. "But now the matter with Blackwall has gone past letters—and you must know—that nothing can happen between us. Nothing further. I should not have allowed any of this to transpire. I do not know what I'm doing." She has said so several times. Poor thing. "I feel… deceitful. A fine thing in court. A game at court." Her smile trembles with guilt and shame. "I have always wondered why you treated me like a child." Another smile and then she looks away, wiping hastily at her cheek.

"My sweet Josie." Leliana slips off the desk and wraps her arms around her. "If you were such a detestable person you would not be so troubled." Josephine rests against her, breathes deeply. Experienced in the Game, experienced with courtly intrigue but vastly inexperienced in matters of the heart. In such a regard, she is barely more than a child. "I think you'd be happier if you let go of some of your notions of propriety."

Josephine pulls away. "I am the Inquisition's ambassador. More than that, I was the Antivan ambassador to Orlais. I am  _known_ , Leliana. I cannot simply abandon everything I stand on for…" her eyes go blank, arms delicately crossed. "I don't know what for."

Leliana smiles. "You are working for the Inquisition. The Chantry has branded us heretics. Thedas reveres us, fears us—this is the time for rebellion." And still she looks so uncertain. So miserable. "With this Corypheus and Calpernia on the loose..." Things are often lost before it is known that they mean everything. "Now is the time for living."

"When was the last time, Leliana, that you ever put anything before your duty? Do not speak to me of living a carefree lifestyle."

Leliana aligns the books on the table. A carefree lifestyle. What's that? She can't remember the last time she lived that way. Long ago, when she played the game with Marjolaine. How innocent she was. How stupid. That pretend game is the only carefree lifestyle Josephine has known since leaving her childhood home. The game is not very carefree once you realize what's at stake. Leliana supposes that if they share anything in common, it is the need to be in control of any situation. "It's not wrong to enjoy life. There has to be more than work. Otherwise, what's the point?" Josephine says nothing. "Do you care about them?" Again nothing. "I believe they care about you." She has not missed what Blackwall has done for her, his longing stares. The Herald is more subtle but she refuses to believe she would have responded to the DuParaquettes accordingly for just anyone. "Do they treat you well?" A smile. "Will they share?"

"Leliana. Please. Do not tease me." She sits again, her cheeks flushed. "I should end things. With Blackwall, clearly, because of his station." Clearly. "And with the Herald… you know how such things are." She doesn't. She's no noble. "In any case, we are well aware of her reputation. It is not as if—as if she could actually care for me. And all the situation has done is confuse me. I can hardly think straight. I cannot focus."

"Why is it so hard to imagine that someone might care for you? You're beautiful, cunning, affluent, charming—what isn't there to love?"

Josephine pouts. "You're incorrigible."

"So, tell me—how is she?" Josephine flushes more deeply. "Have you been intimate enough to know?" And again. Leliana laughs. "Maybe the Maker did send her."

"You are too much!" She stands, gathering her papers. "I will not speak to you of my personal affairs."

Leliana thinks to point out to her that she already has. "How about Blackwall? Is he a good kisser? Does his beard tickle?" She smiles as Josephine drops sheets of paper in her haste. "Fine. Will you at least tell me whether you will send an ambassador to Keep Caer Bronach or go personally? I'll need to let my agents know." It would be pointless to tell Cassandra. She'll likely have moved on by then.

Josephine faces her. She draws a breath. "This is significant. I shall go personally and ensure that the first visiting dignitaries receive the appropriate reception. If they're happy they'll spread the message themselves. Our numbers, as well as our coin purses, will grow."

"I'm sure visiting the Herald has nothing to do with this decision. Shall I have Blackwall escort you?" Josephine leaves without another word. "Come back, Josie. It was a joke!" She's so uptight.

* * *

Cassandra trips over a barrel in her haste to remove herself from the situation. Her face burns. She turns sharply, trying to regain some dignity. Hawke smiles. Cassandra recognizes it as the weathered smile of a woman who has seen too much, who has lived longer than anticipated and takes joy now from small victories. Her eyes are the brightest Cassandra has seen since meeting her.

"Do not be so smug," Cassandra says. This whole mess is her fault, after all, and they have yet to find her warden. Presumptuous woman. She steadies the rocking barrel with her foot. Hawke's smile grows. It is becoming. "Is it your habit to run around kissing women who have not giving you any indication that is what they wanted?"

"You were so determined to find me, I thought your interest might be more personal." Cassandra frowns. The nerve. "It isn't habit. I can't say I've ever done such a thing."

"Then why?"

"You seem to be the kind of woman that holds the world together. What isn't there to admire about that?"

"You can admire from a distance. In any case, if anyone is holding the world together, it is the Herald." Why not turn her affections toward her?

Hawke's smile turns grim. "How much longer do you think she'll be able to hold Thedas together? She can barely keep herself from unraveling." A beat. "She's lonelier than I am." She scoffs, picking up her pint of beer. "I didn't think that was bloody possible."

Cassandra wonders if that is the burden of women in positions of power. She cannot say she has not felt similarly in the past. She suspects the same of Leliana. The Inquisitor, however, does not appear that way. She talks constantly to her companions, to the scouts of the Inquisition. Since they sealed the Breach she seems only to smile. "That is a bold claim. You have not known her long enough to say such a thing."

Hawke shrugs in a way that suggests she doesn't agree. "In any case, I apologize if I've upset you. It is likely no comfort but you are a  _delightful_  kisser."

"How would you know? I did not kiss you back."

Hawke smirks. Cassandra leaves her, frustrated, taking the stairs up to the second floor of the inn. The keep has been secured but Evelyn thought it prudent to stay at the inn, in case another horde of the dead rose to swarm the village. A thoughtful response. The cries of the night have mostly died away but they have not yet sealed that rift. Cassandra anticipates that will come soon. The lake should be drained entirely by the morning.

Cassandra walks into the room she shares with Evelyn. The Herald sits at the desk, quill flat at her side, fingers laced, appearing contemplative. Cassandra notes 'Lady Montilyet' at the top of the sheet. Evelyn quickly folds it. "Writing Josephine?"

"I thought she might like an update on the keep. You know how she likes to pamper nobles. But I remembered you'd already sent word. There's no reason to write." She looks up at her and the storminess leaves her features, replaced with a pleasant, tired smile. An act, Cassandra wonders? "I didn't think you'd be back so soon."

"Neither did I." Cassandra says stiffly, letting the door shut behind her. She takes a seat at the edge of the bed. Evelyn swivels to look at her. "Hawke kissed me."

Surprise, vexation, amusement, something else—the last unrecognizable, dawns on Evelyn's face. "I can't figure who I'm more jealous of."

"Oh, stop." The last thing she needs is the Herald teasing her about this. The Herald is the last who should. Cassandra regrets making mention of it. The Herald should be pure and free of … licentiousness. She scowls, thinking that the bloody Herald borrowed her copy of  _Swords and Shields_  and did not return it. She could have spent her nights catching up, instead of being kissed by scoundrels.

"Did you like it?"

"Do you know I have not been kissed in…" she considers. She doesn't remember the exact length of time "Years." The Herald's lips part in surprise. "The nerve."

"I didn't think either of you made it a point to kiss women." She considers, her eyes far away. "Is that the game of nobility? Royalty? Wearing identities like fashion? Putting it on, taking it off like a dress? Then marrying whatever bloke comes along? Must be nice."

Cassandra does not know to what she refers. Her predilections, perhaps. In any case, she finds the assessment unfair. For one, she turned her back on her noble life, on the wealth it afforded her. She tries to make light of it. "I don't care for dresses at all." Evelyn smiles though it doesn't reach her eyes. Maybe, Cassandra thinks, she is the one who has been unfair. Evelyn sits beside her on the bed. She is a respectful bed partner, not flinging herself around or touching her unnecessarily. If anything, Evelyn curls so tightly into herself as if not even accustomed to having a blanket for warmth. "It was not my intention to upset you." Evelyn shakes her head. "Might I ask you something?"

"I can't deny you anything."

Cassandra laughs, embarrassed. "We shall see." Cassandra studies her, her formless expression when she isn't in the midst of responding to a question, almost as if she molds her expressions to the responses expected of her, with no temperament of her own. "Hawke said—"

"What do you care what Hawke said?" The acerbic response momentarily stuns Cassandra into silence. Evelyn presses her palms to her eyes and falls back on the bed, takes a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Go on."

Cassandra stares at her. They are both gruff women. She wonders if losing their mothers young is partly the reason or if it is some other innate part of their nature. It occurs to her that she would not wish to be asked if she was lonely, would find the question intrusive. She touches a hand to Evelyn's forehead, glancing over her fingers. Heat radiates off her in waves. "It's nothing." Evelyn's breathing is deep and controlled. She is making a conscious effort. "I want you to know that I meant what I said. I was so obsessed with finding Hawke but she is here now. I like her, Evelyn—but I would still choose you to lead us. You were what we needed. You are." Evelyn doesn't remove her palms. Her chin trembles. "Whatever troubles you, you can confide in me." The Herald shakes her head. "Why not?"

Silence. This is difficult. She is used to beating answers out of people. She certainly cannot beat the Herald. She is accustomed to associates, not friends. She isn't sure how to comfort a woman so clearly in distress, particularly when said woman is her leader and she is unsure of what troubles her. The crevices between Evelyn's fingers are damp. Cassandra feels the particular warmth of her breath when she breathes in and out. Evelyn cries silently and is ashamed of it.

Cassandra recalls how Evelyn knelt before her when she cried, furious at Varric, at herself for believing him, at Hawke, for not being there when they needed her. Evelyn took her hands.  _There is nothing you could have done to prevent this._ She smiled.  _We're all fools, here. We'll get through it. I will not let the world end before you finish reading Swords & Shields._

Cassandra was awash in gratitude. She spoke humble words. Words have never been her talent. But they affected the Herald, no matter how quickly she recovered from them. Cassandra wonders how often, how little, kindness and gratitude have been bestowed upon her. Who is this woman who leads them? The woman who in her innocence, her naiveté, her ignorance, killed her fellow templars to spare a mage—who must be racked with guilt at what followed. Cassandra takes Evelyn's wrists, pulling the hands back from her face. For a moment Evelyn stares at her as if blinded. Her eyes are wet, her cheeks. She smiles, incongruent with the tears. Cassandra feels something tug at her.

"Do you ever feel like you're going mad from all the things you're keeping inside?"

She has often been told she ought to show some restraint. "Whenever I have difficulty I turn to the Maker." She averts her eyes and Cassandra wonders if that was the wrong thing to say.

Evelyn pulls her arm away delicately. "I'm really tired." She turns on her side, pulling the pillow close to her. Cassandra watches her. Minutes pass and then a half hour. The breathing remains steady. In, out, controlled. Cassandra removes her boots, undoes the belts to her chest piece before stretching out beside her. She pulls close to Evelyn, an arm around her waist. Evelyn tenses. "What are you doing?" Quiet panic.

"Sometimes all we need is to have someone close to us."

A long silence. "Is that something you got from your romance serials?"

Cassandra punches her back lightly. "I am not attempting to seduce you." Some of the tension melts off her. Truthfully, this is intimate. She's only ever done this with Regalyan. Their friendship was a beautiful thing. Eventually it blossomed into something more. But he's gone now. A long time passes, neither woman falling asleep.

"You know, if you keep being so wonderful, I'm going to fall madly in love with you. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Cassandra nearly pulls away, flustered. "And now you're joking. Clearly you're feeling better. In any case, haven't I already broken your heart?"

A small laugh, her voice quieter still. "You're missing out, passing me up. Don't you know? I'm one of Thedas' greatest lovers. Well loved by noble and royal women alike."

Cassandra gives no response. She stares at her back. She tries to imagine two women being intimate together. How does it work? She has some idea from some of Varric's filthier works but doesn't understand it in practice. The kissing, she supposes, isn't terrible. Perhaps she should ask Leliana.

Eventually their breathing slows and sleep takes them. Cassandra wakes an undetermined amount of time later to shrieking, echoing in the night. Evelyn is already on her feet, stomping into her boots, throwing on her heavy armor. The dead are attacking again. Evelyn glances at her, grabbing her greatsword. "I'll meet you out there."

Cassandra jumps to a standing. "Wait—"

Evelyn races away. Cassandra hurries best she can, chasing after her.

Heavy rain slams into her the moment she steps outside. It's impossible to see clearly. There is a carriage overturned on its side. The carriage horse struggles to get away before it finally gets loose, sending mud flying every which way and running off into the night. It doesn't get far before the dead descend on it.

Cassandra peers into the carriage but it's empty. She looks into the darkness but she can't find her. There are no screams, no sound of battle. She can hear nothing but the crackling of thunder. She searches for her, shouting her name but is met with silence. It is as if the Herald has been stolen from the world. Lightning rips into the veil of night and Cassandra sees it, the Herald's greatsword half-buried in the mud. She goes cold and can shout no more.


	12. Tribulations

The fog is thick and impenetrable. Josephine is soothed despite herself by the clopping of horse hooves, by the steadiness and rhythm of the carriage and rainfall. Blackwall sits across from her, arms crossed, morose. Josephine is rigid. Leave it to Leliana to say she was only making jokes and then send the warden with her.

Blackwall continues to behave with the utmost propriety. He has not made himself overly familiar. Josephine's fingers curl, lightly against her lips as she stares out the window. "Do you hear that?" she asks. Something mournful and hollowed, carried in the wind.

"I don't believe the situation with the corpses has been settled yet, my lady."

Has it not? She thought the situation resolved. If not, why is she here? Why would she encourage the nobility to pass through when it is not yet safe to do so? The idea is unsettling. She cannot fathom the living dead walking the land. What must they look like? Smell like? Are they tenacious? What terror to not allow the dead to rest. Is it the fault of this Corypheus? What manner of god is he, that he would allow such a thing? Why  _hasn't_ the Inquisitor resolved it? Why would Cassandra send word? She's irritated. Perhaps frightened. "How troublesome."

"I won't allow any harm to come to you."

"I have no doubt."

Truthfully, she's glad he's there, no matter how tense she's been. A few scouts have been sent with them but they are not experienced as he at battling such darkness. She needs to speak of what has happened between them. Had she known they would be stuck together she would have cut Leliana off or made sure to speak to him before the lengthy carriage ride. She has given thought to Leliana's words but she cannot afford to be careless with her affections.  _And you have been careful all this time, Josephine?_  No. Perhaps not. It was foolish to allow Blackwall to kiss her, to return it. Now she knows how her body stirred in response, by the grip of his strong hands. Yet, they will never progress. They cannot. She shouldn't have written him. She shouldn't have accepted his letters. She shouldn't have become close to him on an emotional level. They can never be. Her fortune and status have been restored. Their name and legacy will continue to rise. He is more inappropriate than ever. A pity. And yet, she wonders, would it be necessary to end things with him if not for the Herald?

She thinks of Evelyn. The woman who toys at physical intimacy.  _I have to go._  Josephine has thought too long on Evelyn's fingers, delicately easing the hair back from her face. They have been apart for weeks now. Leliana said she believes the Inquisitor cares for her. How can she know that? Why would Evelyn care for her? Doesn't she find her dull? She doesn't respect diplomacy. She cares nothing for nobility or etiquette. Has she ever been involved with anyone for any period of time? Has she loved and lost? Josephine has no answers. Whatever is between them is unwise. Both stake their reputations. Yet they have kissed hungrily, with desperation. Some piece of Josephine remains unsatisfied. What would it take to be satiated? She doesn't know who to blame. She hoped seeing Evelyn would bring some clarity but Blackwall's presence further confuses things. Leliana stood by the carriage with a small smile.  _Did you really think I'd send you off on your own with just any scout? No. I needed someone who would do anything to keep you safe._  She is frighteningly practical at times.

"You look deep in thought. Are you thinking of the dead?"

She can't answer truthfully. That mournful wail comes again. Lightning strikes, illuminating the darkness. There's an overturned carriage. There's a dead horse torn open, eye wide, mouth pulled open as if in terror. She looks away, sick to her stomach. "I thought it was safe here."

He beholds the scene somberly. "Nowhere's safe anymore. That rift is still open. Whatever is falling out of that sky will continue to do so until the Inquisitor seals it." The carriage and scouts move past the inn and Josephine is grateful. It is too close to the village and all those terrible sounds. "She shouldn't delay."

Josephine glances at him. "I believe there was some mention of having a dam drained." But on the way in it seemed as if that had happened. He nods. A cold shiver moves over her and she rubs her arms absently. "Have you ever visited Crestwood?"

"Long ago." He settles back against the cushioned seats. "I could have sworn it wasn't so dismal then."

She smiles. "That makes two of us." The dead never walked Crestwood, in any case. Still, they are livelier than the residents. The village has been on a downward turn for some time, their ability to trade limited considerably by their lackluster location. Yet, that is not what occupies her thoughts. She is considering broaching the matter of their kiss and why it must never happen again when the horse slows. There's some sort of commotion. "What is happening?"

Blackwall has already drawn his sword. He looks past the curtained window and not a moment later the door is flung open. Rain pelts them.  _Step out at once._  Josephine vaguely recognizes the voice though she can't pinpoint it. A woman's. Stern and raspy.

Blackwall scowls and steps out before Josephine can protest. She looks into the darkness. Most Inquisition scouts are still mounted on their horses but others slowly step down. Others carry torches but these are not members of her traveling party. "Blackwall." Surprise. Josephine peers out. "And Lady Josephine," Scout Harding blinks. "Sorry. It looks like our message missed you."

"What message?" Blackwall asks.

"Cassandra sent word that any potential visitors should stay put."

"Why?" Josephine asks. There is another strike of lightning so loud the carriage shakes. Harding pales. "Has something happened?"

Harding furtively glances at the group of soldiers and scouts who watch her. "No, of course not, ambassador. We're just taking precautionary measures. Crestwood isn't as safe as it could be. We're urging all residents to stay indoors."

She's lying. Josephine can tell by how controlled her voice is, how she speaks as if reciting her lines. "Why ask us to come out?" Blackwall asks.

"We apologize for troubling you. You can step back inside now." Blackwall does, soaking wet, looking apologetically at Josephine for the mess he's created. Harding takes the first few steps into the carriage before entering, closing the door. "Whoa. Nice carriage."

Is it? No matter. "Tell me what has happened," Josephine demands, "and do not think to tell me this is routine. Whatever is happening, your soldiers look to be as in the dark as I am."

"You're as clever as you are beautiful, my lady," Harding grimaces. Blackwall smiles, arching his eyebrows in quiet surprise. "I'm afraid I've got bad news. Really bad news. There are two matters. Carriages moving into Crestwood have been attacked. Mostly noble families. I'm glad Blackwall is with you. What we've seen—it hasn't been pretty."

Josephine looks at Blackwall gratefully, her heartbeat accelerating. "Why are nobles being persecuted? Is it bandits?" She thought the bandits had been dealt with. "Are they being robbed?"

"No. Their valuables remain. The men are killed and… well. The women have gone missing."

Her stomach knots. "And the second matter?"

"Yeah, that. Seeker Pentaghast wants to keep it under wraps for obvious reasons—but you're an advisor and you—" Harding looks at Blackwall.

Josephine has already gone cold. She tells herself it's nothing. "What is it?"

"The Inquisitor is missing, my lady."

"What do you mean she's missing?" Blackwall straightens.

Harding's face is anxious and pained before recovering. "Unfortunately that's all I know. There was screaming in the night. The Inquisitor rushed out to see what it was. She didn't wait for the others. By the time Seeker Pentaghast made it out—"

"But where is she?" Josephine can hardly hear herself. "Where has she gone?" She doesn't realize she's repeating herself.

"We don't know."

"How long has she been missing?" Blackwall asks.

Harding grimaces. "Days."

Days… "Does she live?" Josephine's chest burns. Her cheeks burn. Of course she lives. She's simply… Maybe she only left. Yes. That has to be it. She left. She's left before. Tried. But it is difficult to believe now. She cannot imagine it now. Is she a fool? Did she fall under Evelyn's spell? "I cannot—how does—Where is she?"

"I don't know," Harding repeats grimly. "I'm sorry. She's gone."

* * *

 

Cassandra startles awake. A humble flame is the only light, ready to succumb to a pool of melted wax. Hawke leans into the doorframe, watching her. The light makes her face softer. How long has the mage been there? Maker, when did she fall asleep? Cassandra looks at the maps she passed out on, detailing the routes they've explored. "Oh, I just got here," Hawke says, as if reading her mind. "You haven't drooled or set yourself on fire, so off to a fine start."

Cassandra gets to her feet. "You should not have let me sleep," she gathers the maps hastily. "There is no time to waste. Has there been word? Have there been any reports? Any hint? Any indication?"

"Nothing." She pushes away from the door and steps closer. "If you must know, Varric asked me to check on you." Varric did? The situation cannot be so grim. Hawke takes the maps from her. "You haven't rested since she went missing. You're not a Seeker anymore. You can stop seeking."

"You jest. The Inquisitor is gone. You cannot expect me to let that stand." She has been gone days. Cassandra fears the worst. The Inquisition has many enemies, and the Inquisitor even more. There are many who would harm her. The rebel templars and mages, the dead that stalk Crestwood, bandits, the Venatori, Corypheus, this Calpernia, the list goes on. Cassandra is sick to her stomach.

Without the Inquisitor, they cannot seal the rifts scattered throughout Thedas. The world will be overrun by demons. Perhaps the sky will collapse in on itself. Corypheus and his archdemon are loose. The Inquisitor has become a symbol of hope. The people will despair if she's gone. They will think the Maker abandoned them. Cassandra has prayed to the Maker, has prayed for guidance and has been returned with silence.

"You can't carry on like this. You'll slip up while you're out there and then we'll have lost you, too."

"She is not lost!" Cassandra snatches the maps away from Hawke. How dare she be so blasé about this? "You have no idea what she has already survived. She will not be lost in bloody Crestwood. I  _will_  find her."

"The way you found me?"

Cassandra curls her fists. Hawke's voice is even. Without anger, without confrontation. "You went into hiding."

"It doesn't occur to you that she may have done the same?"

"No, it doesn't." Evelyn has been agreeable from the start, eager, brave. Why would she walk away now? Now when things have been easy? The most difficult is behind them.  _Do you ever feel as if you're going mad from all the things you're keeping inside?_

Hawke thins her lips. "Not everyone is as brave as you are."

"I am not so brave."

"And how easily you admit it." She laughs softly but Cassandra can't determine any contempt or bitterness in it, only faint amusement. She does not think there is anything to laugh about. Evelyn did not run away. She would not. Something has happened. Something terrible. "My point stands. You need rest."

"I will rest when she has been found."

"Did you find her a few minutes ago in the maps? No? Don't be so stubborn."

"Save your breath, Hawke. Whatever notion you have of me abandoning my search, put it out of your head." A heat rises up her chest, to her neck, to her face. "I am the one who imprisoned her when the blast killed everyone but her at the Conclave. I all but insisted that she come with us. And then we put the title of Herald of Andraste on her. We would not have let her protest it if she wanted to. It suited the purpose of the Inquisition. We asked that she seal the Breach, we asked that she sacrifice herself to Corypheus so that Haven might live and then we demanded that she be the Inquisitor. We have made her a target and I  _swore_  I would protect her." There's quiet. Cassandra picks up the chair she was sitting on minutes ago and hurls it. The chair slams into the wall by Hawke, loses a leg and falls useless and broken to the floor.

Hawke hasn't flinched. "Feel better?"

Cassandra clenches her fingers, finding it difficult to stop there. She slams her hands down onto the desk. "First Divine Justinia and now the Inquisitor."

"It's not your fault." Hawke takes the maps from her again and presses them flat on the desk. She sighs, removing the quill from the ink well. "Do you know how many caves there are in this area?" She studies the maps, crossing areas off. "We've checked here, here and here. But this map doesn't account for everything. There may be others hidden we don't know about. It would be easier to search if we could just tell everyone she's gone."

"Are you mad? Imagine that it is not Corypheus or some Venatori agent that has taken her. Perhaps she is only injured and disoriented. News of her disappearance would spread like wildfire and then her death would be on our hands." She shakes her head. "No. No one must know."

Hawke looks at her crossly. "You do like to make things difficult. Are you always so hard on yourself?" Cassandra peers intently into the map. Hawke is right. There are countless caves in the area. The search would be difficult under ordinary circumstances. Now the dead crawl the land. She, Dorian, Varric and Hawke have searched day in and day out. She longer than the others. They look at her as if she is mad but she is not. They do not know. They do not understand. Pressure mounts on her chest and throat. She runs a hand through her hair, over her eyes trying to rouse herself.

She can take a small comfort in knowing that it is not often she has failed others. But when she has… Did she not fail Divine Justinia, trying to find Hawke? And her brother. She was a child but… the loss stays with her. She has lost her mother and father, Regalyan, Divine Justinia. Has she lost the Inquisitor? She does not have many friends. Evelyn's smiles have always been a little sad. What was she thinking of the night she disappeared? She was troubled and instead of pressing, Cassandra told her to pray. Did Evelyn also get silence from the Maker? Is it the same response she's getting? Or does Evelyn walk at His side now? The thought chokes her. "I'm going to search." As if on cue, the sickening yowls of the dead begin again. That and the scream are what drew the Inquisitor.

"Now?" Hawke frowns. "No."

"You think to tell me what to do?"

"You're not thinking straight." A smirk. "I won't abide by it unless it's working in my benefit."

"What?" She's too angry to get flustered. "I am going to find her and if you think to stop me—"

"I'm sorry." Hawke touches a hand to her face, her expression soft, apologetic. "Sleep." Cassandra's eyes flutter. No.  _No_. A heavy weight pulls her down and she looks up to see Hawke standing over her. And… is that Josephine?  _What has happened_? So much panic. Hawke and Josephine face one another. "I suppose this doesn't look very good." There's some argument, the voices becoming deeper, slower. Cassandra stretches her fingers out but they grasp nothing. Hawke stoops beside her, fingers light on her forehead. "I prooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise youuuuuuuuuu. The Inquisiiiiiiiiitoooooooor's… fiiiiiiiiiiineeeeee." Words stretching out forever. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps the Inquisitor is safe. Perhaps she has worked herself into a panic for nothing. Her eyes slip shut, Hawke's words spiral, going further and further away until they disappear entirely.

* * *

 She can't breathe. Water in her nose, water in her lungs, water choking her, sand in her throat. She coughs, the cold replaced by a fire burning inside. Her knees are wet. Her face. Her arms hurt. Where are her arms? She can't breathe. Her mouth tastes grainy and thick. Her shoulders are hot and aching, twisted behind her back. She tries to move her wrists but they're shackled. She makes a helpless sound. Her face is buried in mud and sand. She turns it and takes a gasping breath. She can't see. Everything is black. She hyperventilates.

Years pass. Her eyes adjust to the darkness.

There's a blonde woman beside her, an eye gouged out, pale and still. Evelyn yanks back, smashes her head into a rock, whimpers. Her jaw hurts. Her stomach. The back of her skull throbs. Every piece of her. Another violent turn and she's on her back. Her wrists are raw. Her eyes are scalding. Cold water taps on her face. A mushroom pulses in the distance. There are footsteps coming closer.

_I'm going to die._  No. Yes. Yes. She squeezes her eyes shut.  _Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights…_  She remembers when she awoke, chained and surrounded. It was Leliana and Cassandra who accosted her then. After the Conclave. Where's Cassandra? Where are the others?  _I'm going to die._  No. She can't die. She's needed. People are counting on her. If she dies how many others will follow?

She swallows her breath, going quiet. Her armor is gone. Where's her sword? She looks around and can't find it. Swallowing thickly she forces herself to a sitting. She doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know how she got here. There was screaming. A carriage. The dead. This woman beside her… Then… robes. Then…

Maker, she doesn't remember. She yanks at the shackles on her wrists. She can't see but the grip is tight. She pulls until she's breathless and her chest hurts, until there's hot liquid running down her wrists. Where is everyone? Where is she? Someone has her. Someone likely wants to kill her. She licks her lips, they're dry and chapped and sandy. With some effort she gets on her knees.

Voices creep closer. Language. Language she doesn't understand. Elaborate armor, pointed and dark, light. A helmet, metal, ornate, sharp. She doesn't recognize the man's voice. Another one beside her. Venatori. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. One lifts a staff but the other speaks sharply to him. The Venatori lowers the staff. "Let me go," she says to them, her voice shakes. Do they even know what she's saying?

Another brief exchange and then her defender lifts his steel clad foot and slams it into her skull. The force knocks her back, vision blurring, cracks of pain shoot over her temple, leaving her disoriented. She gasps for breath or in pain. Blood runs down her face, gets into her eyes. She drags herself back along the ground until she hits the corpse. She screams but she isn't sure whether in frustration or terror.

The Venatori chuckle, the men beginning what sounds like a playful conversation. The first Venatori stoops beside her. With a growl she lifts sharply, headbutting him, despite his helmet, despite the futility. He shouts, reeling before he speaks again, quick and angry. His fist smashes into her, knocking her out cold.

* * *

 

Josephine has been given an office at the keep.

It is in good shape, strong. Behind her desk are square windows where the wind and rain slip through. The fireplace makes it easy to forget them. The candles flicker. Her attention returns to Evelyn's greatsword over and over again. Who brought it here? When? Maker. Where is she? She has not run away. She cannot have run away. Something has happened. Something unthinkable.

Her throat is tight and she clears it.

She brought documentation from Skyhold but has had difficulty concentrating. Each word written is dragged from her. She crosses them off, folds the sheets several times before discarding them. It seems foolish to her that she did not say those small things she could have when Evelyn left Skyhold. I'll think of you. I await your return. That sort of thing. She becomes frustratingly tongue tied around the woman. The woman who does not care for words. But she was jealous of Blackwall's letters, wasn't she? Perhaps that means…

She cannot get ahead of herself. She cannot regret their parting words. If she allows herself to think that way…

She pushes the chair back, rain falling along the back of her neck. She goes to Evelyn's greatsword, resting in the corner, like a shadow reaper. It is nearly taller than she is. She looks at the long hilt, bound in soft, aged leather. Her fingers drift along it before she pulls them away. She bends, seeing her reflection in the metal of the blade. The sword is stained red, tiny nicks interrupting the otherwise even blade. Josephine presses her fingertip to the edge of the sword and slides it down, frowning gently when her flesh splits and blood flows to the surface.  _Come back, come back, come back._  A prayer. Blood magic, if she had the skill. The thought plays over and over again in her mind. She brings her bloodied finger to her lips, tasting the blood, thinking of the vicious argument Hawke and Cassandra had earlier.

_Who do you think you are? You had no right to do that! She's missing! She's gone! She could be in danger and you would interfere!_

_The Herald wouldn't want you dead, Cassandra. Yell until you're redder in the face. I won't apologize for not letting you get yourself killed._

The words similar to Evelyn's when she confessed to sending the assassins. Josephine still doesn't know whether to be angry at Hawke. She paces the room before sitting. It seems a fool thing to sit in a guarded keep and urge nobles to come their way, spend coin. For what purpose? Coin can restore legacies, names, buy forgiveness, hide shameful things but it will not return the departed. She sits at the desk and considers additional prayer.

She picks up the quill again. She'll write her a letter. She will give her the letter upon her return. Perhaps Evelyn will like that. Perhaps it will reassure her.

_Dear Lady Trevelyan,_

_Though you are gone now, I am most sure you will return shortly and without a doubt, regale us with the tales of your absence. I must confess, you have your associates and myself in a tizzy. No doubt that would amuse you. I attribute our concern to your character. In fact, at times I have difficulty finding that woman that came to my cabin on a dark, frigid night and made the most foolish of promises to me. I now wonder if it is that same promise that has put you in harm's way. The thought is most distressful._

_I must also confess that I find my mind turning to what has transpired between us. I cannot deny that I have enjoyed your affections. I know you view me as 'laced up', where I imagine you might be in need of lacing yourself. I have not missed how liberal you have been with your affections. Regardless, the truth is… I would like to get to know you better, Herald of Andraste. I know it is not the way of us noble women… but some piece of me hopes that you might wish the same. The sad truth is that I get tongue tied around you. Which makes little sense as you are quite savage and from Ostwick, of all places._

_You have me quite frightened, you know._

Josephine crumples the letter before taking a deep breath, covering her face with her hands, squeezing her eyes shut. Days. She has been gone days. How fearsome were those minutes outside of Ostwick where that rift opened? Evelyn barely survived. Maker. Please let her be all right. There's a careful knock at the door. Blackwall enters. His hair gleams, his beard soaked clean through. She rises slowly.

The lines in his face deepen. "I'm afraid I've no news." That is a relief, even if the news is disappointing. "Crestwood is surprisingly large. It will take a good deal more than five people to find her if we are to find her quickly."

"Have you found  _anything_?"

He sighs. Her fingers fidget with the lace of her dress, hovering over her heart. "I'd prefer not to tell you but you'll know soon enough." He lifts his hands as if to calm her. "We found  _something._  But it could mean anything."

She wants to shout at him to get to the point. "What is it?"

"We're not…" His shoulders slump. "We found her armor."

"Her…"

"Yes. Thrown in the bushes. People discard their armor. It's heavy and it might give away your position." She notices how he averts his eyes. "If she's on her own and she does not wish to be noticed—"

"Stop." Stop lying. As if Evelyn were one for subtlety, as if she were one for stealth. She would not discard her armor. She would not discard it even when she took her to bed. She would not discard it when she has no weapon. She imagines Evelyn's lifeless body discarded as easily as that armor. It's difficult to breathe. She sits, clutching the crumpled letter. Blackwall approaches the desk and takes the letter from her. She looks up at him while she screams on the inside. "Was there anything else?"

His mouth turns downward. "You seem upset."

"Our Herald is missing. Who would not be upset?" She smiles. "Tell me, have Cassandra and Hawke resolved their differences? They seemed quite agitated earlier."

"I would say—" He frowns. "Stop doing that." She stares at him. "You're deflecting. Maker's balls, you're good at it. No wonder you're running this Inquisition. It's all right to be upset." No. She will not be upset. She will smile. She cannot be upset. She cannot believe it. This is all a misunderstanding. If she thinks about it, she'll scream, if she lets it sink in, she'll cry. She resents him for drawing attention to it, for making her think of it. "I want to find her as badly as you do."

She doubts it. Oh yes, the Game, pushes on staircases, daggers drawn against the skin, violence made sensual and fun. This is different. She would not last a moment in the Crestwood wilderness. The very thought terrifies her. She despairs over her uselessness. She despises her cowardice. "While you are here, I think it's best we discuss what is happening between us." He stills. "Which is to say… nothing further may happen between us. The letters, the gifts, they must cease."

He furrows his eyebrows. "Have I done something wrong? Are you shooting the messenger?"

"Not at all." She stands, her voice eerily composed. "I take full responsibility. The matter of this Inquisition has taken me far away from everything I am accustomed to. You were… a diversion." His eyes go sharp. Sanctuary. He was sanctuary. "Whatever I feel for you does not matter. I have responsibilities, not only to the Inquisition but to my family. Our stations are too far removed. We cannot be together. We will never be able to consummate our passions, our… feelings. I suspect that you were already aware of this but it occurs to me that I should say it plainly before we become further entrenched." For both their sakes. Leliana sent him to guard her. Josephine wonders if she wishes to be punished.

He blinks, dazed. Her mouth is dry, smile frozen. "I see." He looks around the room and runs a hand through his beard. "I suppose it's for the best. Station or not, I am not worthy of you, my lady." She keeps the smile on her face, even as her eyes burn, even as her fingers clench to the material of her dress, as her deflated lungs shriek. He does not notice. "I… thank you for humoring me. Making me feel special. I thank you for telling me before …" His kindness is murder. He clears his throat, crumpling the letter in his hand further before throwing it into the fireplace. Josephine can't move. "Forgive me. I cannot think clearly right now. I'll let you know as soon as I hear word of the Inquisitor." He exits.

Josephine remains smiling, sniffling, a palm pressed to her cheek, pushing upward.

* * *

 

The air is pungent.

Evelyn coughs. The cave is awash in warm light. The eyeless woman remains on the ground motionless. The Venatori are charred husks. How…? Evelyn tastes blood in her mouth, smells the iron in her nose, spits a glob of red. Panic creeps slowly, filling her with terror. Her eyes are sticky, she closes them long enough to mutter a prayer.

_When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me,_

_And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then_

_In the pounding of my heart I hear the glory of creation._

She rests against a damp, uneven wall. Once more she goes through the motions of getting up. She makes it to her knees before slumping forward, face first in the mud.

She lies there and considers giving up. Her stomach is concaving. She doesn't know when she last ate. She pushes against the mud, her wrists coated in the muck before she's on her knees again. Footsteps echo. She gets to her feet unsteadily.

Evelyn doesn't recognize the woman before her. Pale. Slim. Ash blonde hair, tied back severely. Around her age. She knows her. Must know her.  _Focus._  She can't. Her head feels as if it's been split in half. Evelyn takes a step back, nearly slipping in the process. She looks at the burning men and back at the woman. "What do you want?" she doesn't recognize her voice, deeper, like some creature that's only half-alive.

"I already have what I want." Hazel eyes. Freckled skin, a gap in her teeth, severity in her gaze though her voice is smooth. "My master will be pleased." She looks at one of the Venatori and the light goes out of him. He flutters away to ashes.

"Your master?"

"The Elder One." There's a sliver of impatience in her voice. She comes closer. Evelyn steps back. The woman seems to glide. Her eyes fall on the corpse on the ground. "The Herald of Andraste is a noblewoman by the name of Evelyn Trevelyan. We knew she was in Crestwood. No one quite knows what the Inquisitor looks like. Everyone describes her differently. You understand our dilemma." Evelyn goes pale, sick. Have there been others? Have they taken others looking for her? The woman hooks an index finger beneath Evelyn's chin, her strength forceful but the edge of her nail, even. "I never imagined the pristine Herald of Andraste would be so filthy. And so resilient."

"You killed her because you were looking for me?"

"My men got impulsive. I've never seen the point in harming those who are incapable of defending themselves. I had to resolve the situation." Resolve the situation? So the dead men—her work. The woman's fingernail digs deeper and Evelyn makes a sound. The contact falls away, trailing over her chin, over her scar, pressing her finger to Evelyn's lips. "I don't like violence. But you nearly killed my teacher. You nearly squandered the opportunity to restore the Tevinter empire."

Evelyn rips away from her. She recognizes her now. The woman from Haven. The woman who attacked alongside Corypheus: Calpernia. "You never saw much point in attacking the defenseless? You don't like violence?" Her voice rises. "Is that why you and your magister god attacked Haven? Do you know how many innocent people you killed? Do you care?" She is met with silence. "And now you'll kill me?" Evelyn scoffs, afraid, incredulous. "Why are you doing this? What could you possibly gain in serving a darkspawn magister? Are you bloody mad?"

"I could hardly expect you to understand. Is the god you serve any better?"

"Yes!"

"Is that why He allowed the mage-templar war? And the blast at the Conclave that killed everyone, including the Divine? Your Seeker's man died. You lost family in that explosion." Calpernia rolls her neck carefully, touching her long, elegant fingers to it. "And this… Anders, who blew up the chantry in Kirkwall? Where was the Maker when he destroyed everyone in His house of worship?" A smile. "Is He merciful, because He spared you? Was He merciful when he let the qunari raze Tevinter? The Chantry's hatred of mages caused this. The Maker's will. But would you realize that, Templar? Mage hunter." Evelyn glares, squinting as blood and sweat run down her brow. "I know about you. I know what you've done. I know you've been brave where others would brand you a coward." Evelyn swallows, unable to get a hold of her breath, dizzy as she hears voices drawing near. She glances fearfully behind her. "I have no doubt that your time will come. My master would prefer to dispense of you personally. You may go."

"Go?"

"This could hardly be considered a victory. I  _will_  lead Tevinter to glory. But not like this. We must be better." The last she seems to say to herself. The footsteps are closer now. "That will be Livius. He will take victory where he can get it." Her face is gently contemptuous.

Is it a joke? Is it a trap? She hopes against hope. "My wrists are shackled."

"Then do as I did and break your chains. Only you can do that."

Calpernia moves past her. Evelyn blinks and stumbles, running in the opposite direction.

* * *

 

The inn is desolate. The torches are giving out. Shadows lick at the corners of the room. Hawke collects a pitcher of beer and cups from behind the bar. The inn has been abandoned since Evelyn disappeared. Hawke hadn't thought it could look any drabber. Cassandra sits on her own, Varric sits on his own. They're still angry at each other. Hawke wants to go to both of them.

She settles the pitcher in front of Varric. He's been unnaturally serious and preoccupied. She hardly recognizes him. Something has come between them. She suspects it's Corypheus. Likely he's blaming himself for taking her to that place. But they wouldn't have been able to break the seals without her blood. "So this is the operation you run with these days." Kirkwall is a drop in the bucket compared to the Inquisition. "I can't believe you've left me for this Inquisitor. Out with the old, in with the new?"

"Left you, Hawke? Weren't you the one that ran out on Kirkwall? Have you forgotten I was held  _captive_  by a grumpy seeker wanting to know your whereabouts?"

Hawke glances at Cassandra, still poring over her collection of maps. "I could think of worse people to be held by."

"Really, Hawke?"

She fills his cup with beer. "Lighten up." She leans closer. "Are you so worried about the Inquisitor? I always knew you were sentimental, Varric, but you hardly know her."

"Sounds to me like you're jealous that there's a new heroine in my life." He smiles, taking a swig of beer and tapping his back. "But before there was the Inquisitor, before there was the Champion, there was Bianca. Isn't that right, girl?"

Hawke half expects the crossbow to talk back. "You do know only one of those is real, right?"

"One?" That twinkle in his eye.

Some of the desperation goes out of her. Maybe he's still there after all. "Cassandra didn't hurt you, did she? When she had you captive?" She hopes not. She might have to dislike her.

He sighs. "I'll say this about her—she's a violent, lunatic, zealot—but her heart's in the right place and she only beats you lightly—until she feels like you're holding out on her. Luckily for me, I'm a masterful storyteller and you make a compelling subject." She laughs. "By the time I finished your tale, she was half in love with you."

"Only half? You're losing your touch." Another smile and she pours herself a pint. "Why are we here, Varric?" He looks at her quizzically, as if she were the one that were mad. "We killed Corypheus. He's back. So now… we what? Kill him a second time and hope it sticks? What if Cassandra had taken me captive?"

"Weren't you just saying that you wouldn't mind?"

"That's beside the point."

"You're really asking?" She's never seen him so irritated. Except the time Aveline raided his printing room for illegal activity during the first publication of Hard in Hightown.  _This is not sanctioned by the city guard!_  "This Corypheus thing is on me. Now you can say the wardens would have been able to awaken him anyway but without your blood they would have had squat. I'm the one who brought you there."

"It was the wardens who did this. They're to blame."

"I know, I know… It's just… with everything that's gone down… I figure it's the least we can do. You could stand to do a little less complaining."

Hawke frowns. "So I'm selfish for wanting to get away from this shit." Wasn't ten bloody years of her life enough?

"That isn't what I meant. I meant, it's the least I can do. You've done enough. More than enough.  _Shit._  That doesn't sound right either. I need more beer." She tops his cup. He keeps his head lowered thoughtfully. "I didn't mean to blame you for leaving Kirkwall. It was the right thing to do. It was fucking heroic."

"Is that what they call 'heroic' these days? Leaving your people behind?"

"You were trying to save them."

"Maybe the Inquisitor is off being heroic somewhere, too." His face is hard as stone. "Are you worried?" Is he so friendly with the Inquisitor?

"It doesn't look good, Hawke."

"Maybe she's dead." If she's lucky, that's how she'll get her rest. Or maybe she'll just get the shit kicked out of her. Life's a bit like that, isn't it? You get up, it knocks you down. Get up again and it breaks a few ribs.

"Would you even care?" There's a smile in his voice despite how exasperated he looks.

"What are you on about?"

"This is glib, even for you."

"Everyone dies, Varric. Except Corypheus." A wry smile. "She won't be the first I lose, nor the last. What is she to me? Not my mother. Not my father. Not my sister. Not my brother. Not you." The door to the inn opens and Blackwall enters, his face stormy and even more weathered than usual. Hawke turns away, disinterested. Varric scowls. Hawke stands. They search each other with their carried guilt. She leaves him, hating how much has changed between them in such a short period of time. They've known each other near ten years. Things shouldn't change so quickly. Gloomy, she forces a smile on her face and straddles the bench Cassandra sits on, facing her. "Still angry?"

"With you? Yes." Her fingers glide over the map. "Things seemed tense between you and Varric. I do not know which of you is more unbearable."

"Varric, obviously." Hawke slides closer to look at the map. "These all look the same to me." A sigh. "Don't all the places begin to bleed together for you? In Kirkwall every cave and warehouse became impossible to tell apart." Her fingers explore the map, grazing Cassandra's.

"I will snap them," she warns.

"But they're such loving fingers."

"I imagine you will miss them terribly," Cassandra shoots daggers at her. "This is no time for levity. Yet you insist."

"Someone has to be sensible. Why the insistence on descending into hysterics?" She scoffs. "I've cried a lifetime of tears. Haven't you?" She pulls back to better look at Cassandra, to gauge her. "You don't strike me as the crying kind." Even if she has seen the woman dangerously close to that already.

"I may be a warrior but I am not without feelings." She frowns and rolls the map up. "This is getting us nowhere." She stands and begins the trek up the stairs. Hawke follows. Cassandra waits until they've turned the corner before she settles her hand on the chest piece of Hawke's armor and slams her against the wall. Hawke laughs breathlessly. Shit. That was unexpected. "If you put half the energy you have in being a nuisance to me into finding Evelyn, she may have been found already."

"Being a nuisance is more fun than wading through mud and being attacked by the undead."

Cassandra's forearm keeps pressed to her. "Why were you and Varric arguing?"

Oh. So this is what Varric went through. "I said I wouldn't mind being kidnapped by you. He didn't like that."

A hint of color touches Cassandra's cheeks despite her irritation. "What you did in Kirkwall was impressive."

"Impressive enough for another kiss?"

Cassandra frowns and presses her more tightly to the wall. Everyone is so tense. "What has your life been since you left that place?"

"Grand. Who doesn't love the Champion of Kirkwall?" Cassandra lifts her arm higher, to the base of Hawke's neck. Is this what the Right Hand was called on to do? "Templars have never held love for me. Do you know how many times Cullen dragged me into his office for talks before I was made champion? He wasn't a mellowed out ex-templar in withdrawal, then. He was righteous. He was Meredith's right hand. He was a believer. His chats left marks." Cassandra flares her nose. "You know as well as I that outside of Kirkwall, I am loathed. Not even the mages are happy about what's happened. They all want someone to blame. So they blame me. And as soon as word of Corypheus gets out," she smiles, her eyes burning. She blinks them, surprised. "I'm never going to rest. Not ever." She swallows. "That's what Varric and I were talking about." She pushes back against Cassandra but the woman is remarkably strong. She stays put, looking into her eyes, warm and brown, unflinching. "If the Inquisitor lives, I hope she escapes. I hope she gets away from this. There is no grey to your heroics, Cassandra. You saved Val Royeaux and the Divine. You can only be loved for that. The Hero of Ferelden stopped a blight. Me? I chose the mages and prompted a war. Evelyn? She chose templars and has gathered an unstoppable military. No matter what good she does, they will hate her. And as soon as they don't need her anymore, to calm the skies, they will go after her. She will never know a moment's peace. When you're like that, no one wants to be near you. You're poison. That's what you want to bring her back to. That's the thanks she will get."

Cassandra grip is excruciating. Hawke focuses on the bronze shards in her eyes, the way her fingers hover over her face. Their eyes remain locked, Cassandra's furious and accusatory. She releases her. Hawke wheezes, bringing her fingers to her throat, breathing again.

* * *

 

Clouds cover Crestwood in darkness. She runs, slipping often, shoulders and arms colliding hard with the ground. She's drenched in mud, sticky and cold. It might make for camouflage if nothing else. There are torches burning in the distance. Inquisition scouts? Perhaps more Venatori. Maybe it's Cassandra. Maker, please, please let it be Cassandra.

She hears snatches of words, heavy and unrecognizable and flees at the last moment, throwing herself behind a boulder, slamming her shackles into the stone. The rain is loud enough that they won't hear at this distance. She succeeds only in cutting into her wrists further, the shackles firmly in place. A few more tugs and nothing, except blood running down her wrists and to her hands. She closes her eyes and fights for breath.

She has to get free. Why did that woman let her go? Is she toying with her? What would Corypheus think if he knew? Tevinter apostate. Break her chains, Calpernia said. As if it were so bloody easy. She slumps to the ground, dizzy and tired, some of the adrenaline that previously fueled her waning.

It would help if she could get her arms under her legs. If she had her bloody wrists in front of her that would be something. She could find a sword or—or a rock.  _Is that how you'll beat the Venatori back? With rocks?_  She has to return to the inn. To Caer Bronach. The only problem is she doesn't know where the void she is, how far back. She's in Crestwood, she's fairly certain but what of the others? Are they all right? She shifts, trying to get her wrists far back enough so she can step over them. She loses her balance and hits her head against the boulder.

She folds over, vision swimming. For a moment she gasps against the mud and grass that brush against her lips.  _Up, up, get up._  She gets to her aching and bruised knees. She'll have to pull her hands out. She takes a breath and begins the exertions again. The sides of her hands protest with pain. She curls her fingers together trying to make them as small as she can. She only needs to get one loose. She pulls, her heart battering, teeth grit tight. She makes some headway but not without cost. The skin on her left hand slowly peels back. She bites back a scream, push through it, push through it, push through it. She yanks it free. Blood runs down like a river but she's got use of her hands again. Sort of, anyway. Her left hand burns, throbbing wildly with her heart.

She tests her fingers, flicks away the excess skin from the shackles. The torches come closer. She breathes and presses against the boulder, watching the group. Not Venatori. Not Inquisition scouts. Wardens. Oh, Maker. Thank the Maker. Grey wardens. She exits her hiding spot. "I'm unarmed," she tells them and takes another breath. "Be careful, there are Venatori in the area."

The wardens exchange looks and look back at her, one of them coming closer to shine a torch in her face. Evelyn's momentarily blinded. She lifts her arm and looks at him through the shadows. Nice mustache, she nearly says. He'd be handsome without. "Look at that," he says, "there's a woman beneath all that mud."

"As if you've ever been choosy, Ser," one of the warden mage women says.

Evelyn smiles. Thank the Maker. She could kiss the lot. "Are one of you Hawke's warden friend?" That'd be a bloody relief right about now. Maybe this group is looking for her though it doesn't seem that way.

"The Champion's here?" a man asks. There's another exchange of looks. The mustache looks at her. "What's your name, stranger?"

He looks at her wrists and to Evelyn. A chill crawls down her neck. She doesn't know why but she's afraid. Maybe she doesn't like wardens. Maybe because of Blackwall. "Can you point me to the inn? I seem to have lost my way." Cold rain taps hard on her face. The group of wardens are shadows. The mustache's longsword hangs at his side.

He notices her notice. His hand lunges out. She dodges it and turns but he grabs her, throwing her as if she were nothing. Evelyn crashes onto the ground. The wardens approach and she crawls backwards, trying desperately to get to her feet. No. No. No. No! I'm the Inquisitor. I'm the Herald. We're on the same side. What are you doing?

She doesn't realize she's saying it out loud, screaming the words. They circle her, hands pulling, yanking her to her feet. Rough rope wraps around her right wrist. "We should hold on to her. Livius wouldn't want her interfering."

The voices blur together, everything spinning again. How is this happening? Out of the hands of the Venatori and into the Wardens'. She can't breathe, she can't breathe. Where are the others? What can she do? Her hand burns, bright green glowing like cracks of lyrium, racing up her arm, every nerve gone on fire. A muffled scream and she swings an elbow back hard, not wanting to risk having her wrists bound again. Her elbow connects painfully with someone's jaw. There's a loud crack, followed by a peal of lightning. She staggers away but is tackled almost immediately. She's a ragdoll.

She lifts a hand, trying to keep them at bay, the green glow casting their faces in eerie light. Her teeth chatter, her body shrieks, fighting. This is more terrifying than Envy. This is more terrifying than Corypheus. Pretender, he called her. Maybe he was right. How can she stop a darkspawn magister god when she can't stop wardens? She thinks of the night Haven fell, scared out of her mind, numb from the terror and the snow.  _What you flail at rifts I crafted to assault the very Heavens. And you used the anchor to undo my work. The gall._

Her breath comes faster, leaving her dizzy. Her hands flail. Something catches in the sky, where she'd not have thought it would. The wardens look up quizzically. Evelyn pulls. She's pulled before to close. This time she pulls to open. There's an explosion. Demons cascade out of the heavens.

The wardens scream and scatter. Evelyn get to her feet. It isn't long before a warden falls dead. She yanks his longsword free, comforted by its weight, knowing she has a chance now. She can defend herself now. Kill now. And still, she runs.

* * *

 

They watch it from the keep, beckoned by the sound of ripping fabric echoing through Crestwood. It's followed by an explosion. There's a new tear in the sky.

Fear ripples through the keep. Is it Corypheus? Will they soon be overrun by demons as well as the dead?

Hawke smiles faintly. "I was thinking things weren't dire enough." Josephine keeps her arms crossed tightly. She is unsure of what any of this means. All she knows is that Evelyn is still missing. Evelyn who lacks a weapon or armor. The rain pelts them. Josephine moves back beneath the overhang. The small step, inches, saves her from the onslaught. Hawke remains, staring at the torn sky. "So now we have two rifts to seal and no Inquisitor. That's just perfect."

Cassandra desperately wanted this woman to lead the Inquisition. Would she have received the mark? Would she have accepted the position? Would she have tried to leave in the middle of the night? Would she have even looked at her? Josephine has decided she's angry with the apostate. All this trouble started in Kirkwall, when Hawke allowed her apostate lover to go unchecked. And still, Josephine knows what Hawke did to remedy it. She always thought mages were inclined to have a certain aloof grace. Daggers are violent, personal. She remembers the blade going into Evelyn's stomach, has come to memorize the cut along her own ribs. Evelyn couldn't have felt it with the gloves she wore. What would she think, say, if she had? "I am certain she will return shortly."

"Think she's out for a stroll, do you?"

"Where is this warden friend of yours? It is the reason we are here, is it not? It is the reason  _she_  came. And she is gone and here you are making jokes, doing nothing."

"So you  _don't_  think she'll be back shortly? Why else would you be wound up so tight?" She keeps her gaze on the rift. "It's your Inquisitor that called me here, remember?" A sigh. "How well do you know her?" She looks back at Josephine as if to discern any attempts at lies. "Are you close?"

"I know her… as well as any other advisor."

"Do you know she fancies Cassandra?" A smile.

Josephine doesn't react. "Seeker Pentaghast is a capable woman." A warrior. Someone to be respected. Someone brave and unyielding. "That she is admired is no surprise."

"She's fired up over the Inquisitor. At first I thought she'd wandered off. Crestwood is a shithole. And so is the title of Inquisitor. 'Herald of Andraste'." Her tone rolls its eyes at the title. "It's not easy being the one everyone looks up to. They want you to solve everything but they never ask how you are. They don't want to feel guilty for knowing the toll it takes on you. Anyway, I thought she had left. Who wouldn't want to? But now we've found her armor."

"That could mean anything." She had hated Blackwall for saying as much, for acting as if she were stupid. And yet here she is repeating the sentiment.

"Maybe. How stupid is this Inquisitor, do you suppose? Stupid enough to want to leave this dangerous thankless life behind and discard her armor?" She shakes her head. "She's likely dead. It will hit Cassandra hard. And the Inquisition," she adds as an afterthought. "Can't forget that."

Josephine's stomach plummets. "No."

"Why not? Because she's a hero? Because she's good? Because she's needed? Heroes die all the time. Undeservedly. Unexpectedly."

"You live."

"But for how long?"

Josephine looks at her and wonders where the woman Varric wrote about is. Are all heroes so defeatist? Melancholy? Is Evelyn? Evelyn who smiles and comes to see her before departing, takes her to bed. Josephine thinks of all the things she could not say to her. Will it be the last time they saw one another? She's hot and sweaty, freezing, thinking about it.  _Who am I supposed to talk to about all of this_?  _You don't know everything. Something happened—something came to light—when Corypheus attacked. I can't keep everything inside. It's driving me mad_.

Josephine told her to find someone else. Shame washes over her. Her presence has boded well for the Inquisition. Many have received letters about how lovely they find the Inquisition's ambassador, how thoughtful, how kind. Is she an act? She is no longer sure of who she is. Maybe she's only a sycophant. She tells herself she turned Evelyn away because she did not want to risk the Inquisition, her own reputation, but knows it was the latter that played a bigger role. If only she could search for her, do something, anything. She is left sitting on her hands. No one can know that Evelyn is missing. Any search parties she might arrange aren't being utilized. "The Herald will not allow any harm to come to you while you are in her service. It is not her way."

Hawke smiles at that but it isn't a particularly kind smile. "Have you thought of the message you'll put together for Thedas to tell the world of her passing? Or will you discredit her and put someone else in her place?" A laugh. "I'm not going to do it."

"Evelyn is not gone. And I must insist, Serah Hawke, that you cease this talk at once."

"Evelyn?" She frowns and looks away apologetically.

Cassandra marches up to them, Blackwall, Varric and Dorian in tow. Hawke and Cassandra exchange a brief glance. Josephine looks at the group but Blackwall doesn't look at her. "There's a new rift."

"Is there?" Hawke asks. "I hadn't noticed."

Cassandra narrows her eyebrows. "We must redouble our efforts to find her."

"How are we going to do that, Seeker?" Varric scoffs. "We've been searching day and night. Unless you know a way to stop time, there's nothing to redouble."

"There's been talk of wardens in Crestwood," Blackwall crosses his arms. "We could appeal to them. Enlist their aid."

"How the Void are we going to do that?" Hawke snaps. "They're preoccupied with the Calling. Not only that, they couldn't give a rat's ass what anyone needs. Blight, Blight, Blight, don't call us about your political rubbish because we don't get involved. Haven't you heard?"

"I'm here. I'm helping."

"Then you must be an odd duck of a grey warden."

"That's rich coming from the apostate who fueled the mage-templar war—"

"Oh, clever, clever warden. What an original thing to say. How shall I ever recover?"

"Clever?" Dorian chuckles. "I don't know if the hairy lummox even knows the meaning of the word."

"That is enough!" Josephine stares at the group in astonishment. "What is this bickering resolving? The Herald of Andraste is still out there! Cassandra," she swallows, surprised at her outcry, "please, may I speak with you in private?" Cassandra is the only sensible one in the group. Everyone else is all too happy to fill their time with excuses and accusations. Maybe she's being unfair. She wrings her hands, happy when Cassandra follows her back to her temporary office.

Both women are soaked through. Cassandra looks leaner, sharper than when she last saw her. Bless her, she is truly doing everything she can. Josephine paces. "I understand your concern about alerting Thedas to the absence of the Inquisitor but do we not risk more by letting her go unattended? When Haven fell she returned to us. I am certain we can find her," she takes her hands and Cassandra looks at her uncertainly. Josephine thinks she wants to pull away. Josephine doesn't let her. "Where ever she is, we must not leave her out there a moment longer. What if she's hurt?" Cassandra swims in her vision, reduced to blobs of color. "Hawke believes… Hawke is not optimistic."

"I would not put any stock into what Hawke thinks." Cassandra draws away and runs a hand through her hair. She takes a shuddering breath. "Josephine… as much as I want to do what you have just asked—I'm afraid I cannot. This situation must be contained. If they know she is missing, they will find her in Crestwood. If they know she is gone, they will attack Skyhold and there will be nothing there to stop them. I loathe to think it. Even if the worst comes to pass… a period of silence will buy us time to fortify, to… I know it is despicable but we must not show any weakness. The consequences will be grave."

Josephine bites her tongue. "I see. So we will ask her to sacrifice everything for us but will sacrifice nothing for her?" She is numb. She blinks rapidly. Her lower lip trembles. "Very well. Please, excuse me." She flees swiftly from the room, afraid she will burst into tears if she dwells even a moment longer.

* * *

 

There isn't any part of her that doesn't ache. Her heart is particularly afflicted. Cassandra sits at the desk of the room she shared (shares) with Evelyn. The last she saw the Inquisitor in this room she was writing Josephine, seemingly distracted.

Josephine is disappointed in her. Cassandra shares her disappointment. She has always bucked tradition to do what is necessary. What's necessary isn't always right. What's right isn't always good. Heavy beads of muddy water fall off her hair, spiked by the rainfall. They have battled all evening, they have searched more caves and have not found her. They have not dared to approach the new rift. The Inquisitor closes rifts, she doesn't open them. She will not be there.

Cassandra is compelled to reach out. She does not have Josephine's talent for letters, nor Leliana's, nor Varric's… but she forces herself to pick up the quill left behind by the Inquisitor and write Leliana.

_Dear Nightingale,_

_Despite our best efforts, we have yet to find Evelyn. I am shackled by diplomacy, no matter how I often detest it. I can't help but think that things would be different if you were here. Without you at my side, I am forced to play a balancing act. I prefer to bash things until I get the response I want. You have a more delicate touch. If you were here perhaps I could follow my heart and act impulsively. Instead, I must now think of the greater good._

Water from her face and hair drips on the paper, creating blobs of wet ink. Cassandra tears the letter and discards it on the desk. She stands and goes to the window, looking to the darkness where bright, emerald light pulses in the sky. The dead continue to come. They considered evacuating the Crestwood citizens to the keep but getting a group of villagers who've never held a sword to the fort seemed improbable at best.

A floorboard creaks behind her and she turns. Hawke. Maker, the woman is a nuisance. Cassandra does not know why she had any fascination with her. The Champion comes closer, standing beside her to look out the window. "Maybe you could be the next Inquisitor," Hawke says.

Cassandra scoffs. She will no longer be angry. Hawke likes to get a reaction. "There is no need. And if there was, which there isn't, I do not want it."

"Did Evelyn want it?"

Cassandra frowns. No. She did not, particularly. But it is different. They had leverage against her. There were some that viewed her involvement at the Conclave with suspicion. But it was not all negative. The people of Haven admired her. She was the face of the Inquisition, whether she wanted to be or not. There was no other choice. Cassandra wonders if she's only fooling herself. "Did you want to be the Champion? It doesn't matter what we want. It doesn't matter who would do it. Sometimes there is only one person who can."

Hawke smiles wryly. "That sounds an awful lot like fate or destiny."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's a tad more romantic than I would have expected from the fierce warrior woman."

And now she laughs at romance. "Did you ever disappear on Varric for days?"

"I'm assuming nights of wild debauchery don't count."

Cassandra wrinkles her nose. "Josephine is angry." She considers. "That isn't the word."  _That's not what I meant._

"The snippy ambassador?" Hawke leans into the window frame, not seeming to mind the rain coming in. Cassandra wouldn't ever use the word 'snippy' to describe Josephine. "I've never met anyone drowning in denial like that." She crosses her arms. "I would have taken someone in that position to be more pragmatic. Do you think she and the Inquisitor are involved?"

That's absurd. "And now you gossip."

"Is it so farfetched?"

Yes. The women rarely interact. More often than not, when plotting strategy, Evelyn completely ignores Josephine's suggestions. They have nothing in common outside of noble blood. "I'd rather discuss how we're going to get her back." A beat. "I told Josephine we could not let others know. But I wonder, what are the ramifications if she dies? Will it have been better to be cautious? Her life is more important than any other's. I think I am doing the right thing. I am putting the safety of everyone above her own, even if her life is the most important. I think that is what she would want. Maybe that is naïve. What kind of friend am I? Varric would never do this to you." Hawke says nothing. "If Leliana were here, I could do what I wanted. But she is not."

"Do you always base your decisions on what Leliana thinks?"

"No. But I am more myself when she is near."

"Mh."

"Do you think she is alive? Evelyn."

"No. But, silver lining, I thought Corypheus was dead, too."

"Is that your idea of a joke?"

"Too soon? You're not laughing… so no."

"Is everything a joke to you? Evelyn's like that, too. She never takes anything seriously." At least not around her. Always with the flirting, always with the diversions, egging Sera on, encouraging her to punch bears.

"Has it ever occurred to you that we mask our pain with jokes?" Cassandra stares at her. Hawke's eyes brighten, her smile carefree. "My, my, you really will believe anything, won't you?"

"And you are not so clever as you think. Do not think I have forgotten what you said about your loneliness." Hawke lifts a hand as if to dismiss her comment but though the smile remains, she is more somber than only moments ago. "Do you miss your apostate?"

"Do you miss yours?"

Cassandra glowers. "They were hardly the same. Do not compare them. Still, I suppose I could have worded that differently."

"You're no wordsmith." She glances back at her. "What about you, Cassandra? Do you get lonely?"

"Is this your opening to more flirtation?"

"Would you like it to be?" Bolts of lightning rain from the sky, covering Crestwood in a blue and purple haze. Hawke inhales the air deeply. "Smells like Templars."

Smells like lyrium, Cassandra nearly corrects. "I can't help but think that I should be looking for her. Where ever she is… she must be so desperate." Her body hurts. They've had eighteen hour days and still, it does not seem like enough. "What if she thinks I've abandoned her?"

"No one could ever think that."

* * *

 

Evelyn hobbles, the sword she carries as heavy as any mountain. Demons drift over Crestwood like a mist. The dead are on the loose. They're all around her, lurking in the shadows. She has to keep moving. Her breath is raspy, her lungs feel wet, which she doesn't take to be a very good sign. This is worse than Haven. She hurt less in Haven. She prays. She stumbles on hands and knees over mud before finding a glimmer of energy to get on her feet.

There are lights in the distance. The inn. Further is the keep. She's near. She just has to keep moving. Lightning flares and for a moment she considers dropping the sword, not wanting the lightning to be what does her in. It's not too far but the distance seems insurmountable. She's depleted. She wants to sleep. No. Cassandra wouldn't want her to go to sleep. She keeps moving.

Up ahead she sees the skulking emaciated forms of the dead. She stills, wiping the blood from her face. Maker. There's no way around. There's no way around without going back. Normally she wouldn't worry but she's listless. She can hardly manage walking. She has to go forward. Another prayer.

She holds the longsword in both hands, dragging it off to the side. What if they see her?  _You'll fight them._ She won't make it. She knows she won't. She has to try. Where are they? Where are her associates? Have they given up on her? Maybe they don't care. Maybe they think she's dead. No, Cassandra would look for her. She thinks Cassandra would look for her. Until they found her body, at least. She's close to the inn. They won't have to look far.

The dead see her. They dash forward, their arms swinging wildly. They have weapons. Oh, shit. Why do they have weapons? They get to her in record time. The first swings its sword. She steps back and slips in the mud. The creature hisses, jumping on her back, grey, mottled hands grabbing a chunk of her hair and pulling her neck bare.

She has a sword. She had a sword. It's been knocked several feet away. So this is it.

No. She struggles. The corpse is bones and rotten flesh. Its teeth dig into her shoulder, its sword plunging into her calf. How is it so strong? How can it be so much stronger than her? She doesn't have the energy to scream. They wrestle and she finally gets onto her back though she doesn't know that she's in any better positioning. The thing shrieks. Another slice of lightning and Evelyn sees its black gums, the black cracks of its teeth, inhales his breath, dirt and rotting flesh and nearly chokes.

It whips its sword and she lifts her arm. The sword buries into her forearm. Blood pours but she doesn't notice, her fingers wrapping around the sword the thing desperately tries to press into her neck.

_I am not alone. Even_

_As I stumble on the path_

_With my eyes closed, yet I see_

_The Light is here._

_Draw your last breath, my friends._

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._

Where are the stars? All she sees are clouds. Blurs of clouds.

_Rest at the Maker's right hand—_

The corpse's head flies off. Evelyn holds a sword, still held by the headless body. She screams, pushing the creature away and falls back. There's a yowl in the corner, she hears it and soon that comes to an end. A flash of lightning. A warden with a greatsword. She crawls back again, her cut hands filling with mud, excruciating pain filling the previously detested numbness. "Stay away." She's only moved her lips.

"Are you just going to lie there?" The man asks. He comes toward her, hulking and all muscle. She gets on her stomach and pulls herself by her elbows until she reaches the longsword. She turns on her back, lifting it feebly before she drops it into the mud. She cries without knowing she is. He stoops beside her, looking irritated, faint blue eyes impatient, face stubbled. "I'll help you up." He extends a hand to her. No. He's a warden. It's a trap. Not another warden. He hasn't killed her yet. She crawls another few feet before falling flat on the mud.

He picks her up, hurls her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He walks towards the inn. "Andraste's ass, leave it to the dwarf and my bloody sister to call me to a shithole like this."

* * *

 

Scout Harding rides up to the keep to tell her the Herald has been found. She lives. Josephine resists throwing her arms around the dwarf and shouting her gratitude. She smiles so hard her cheeks hurt. Harding, along with Blackwall and Dorian agree to escort her to the inn. Their spirits rejuvenated, they fall back into biting commentary. Josephine has nothing to add to their jabbing. She doesn't know Dorian well enough to tease. Things with Blackwall remain awkward. Is friendship too much to ask? Truthfully, she would have liked something more but that was never a possibility.

"Do we know how she is?" Josephine asks Harding.

The wind becomes brutal and she has to repeat herself several times before Harding hears. Harding's words are equally carried away. Eventually she makes out 'pretty banged up'. Banged up. That doesn't sound terrible. It doesn't sound great but nor does it sound terrible.

They make their way to the inn quickly on horse, Dorian, Harding and Blackwall blithely cutting down the dead that come too close, smelling of fruit gone bad, their shouts like words that never found form. Though the dead are not allowed to draw near to Josephine, her heart is battering in her chest by the time they reach the inn. It is as run down as she remembers but glows warmly this night.

Hawke is with a warden Josephine doesn't recognize. He looks over at the newcomers without interest before nodding at Blackwall. Cassandra and Varric are at the foot of the stairs, talking intensely. Josephine goes directly to them. "Where is she?" It is rude but etiquette seems to have abandoned her entirely. "Is she all right?"

"Is Ruffles…" Varric pauses for dramatic affect. "Ruffled?"

Josephine looks at him quizzically. "What?" Cassandra makes a disgusted sound. "Oh. Yes. Very funny." She looks to Cassandra. "May I see her?" This is like Haven all over again. She doesn't wait for Cassandra's approval. She begins up the stairs and is not unaware of how the group looks at her. She could explain but what is there to explain? For the moment she does not care for their opinion. Cassandra takes her arm. Leliana did this after Haven, too. Is she too impulsive? Demanding?

"She needs rest," Cassandra says. "She has been…" she licks her lips. Josephine's heart sinks. "It is clear she has been through a difficult time. If anyone is to see her, it is Dorian." The mage, having heard his name perks and comes over. "We have some potions but given her state it could prove detrimental to take them all at once. I am afraid we will have to rely on Dorian for healing."

"Afraid?" He scoffs. "She'll be better than new once I'm through with her."

"I would not be so sure." Cassandra regards him skeptically. "In any case, you should attend to her immediately."

Josephine continues up the stairs, ignoring how Cassandra calls her name. Dorian catches up to her a moment later. "Don't mind her," he says cheerfully, "as far as I'm concerned, three's a party." He winks. Josephine bites the inside of her lip. Dorian arches his eyebrows. "You're pale as a ghost, Josephine. Did those undead give you a fright? Or have you a soft spot for my dear cousin?"

Cousin? Oh, yes. She believes the mage refers to Evelyn in such a fashion. A distant relation, though the two are as different as can be. "Please do not send me away."

He laughs, his eyes softening, a hand on her shoulder. "Didn't I say three's a party? If anyone sends you away it'll be our dear Inquisitor. I'm fairly sure you outrank me in this little Inquisition. Cassandra might snap me in half but to the Void with it. Let's throw caution to the wind!"

They get to the room and pause, smiling nervously at one another, afraid of what lies behind the door.

* * *

 

Evelyn does not send her away. Josephine chooses to exit, leaving her alone with Dorian. The creature on the bed was unrecognizable. It is the mud. It is the blood. It is that vacant look in her eyes. Dorian's baritone voice travels, in low grumbles, through the door. Josephine hears nothing from Evelyn, except, soft assents and cries of pain. The mood of the inn has grown somber again. They should be celebrating but everyone looks miserable. Would it have been better to tell the others? She was found and returned alive. Josephine doesn't know whether to question Cassandra's decision. Judging by Cassandra's miserable expression, her pacing, the tightness of her jaw, it is evident that Cassandra has her doubts.

An eternity passes. Dorian exits, pale and sweaty, drawn. He coughs, a dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth. He looks at it as if it were a viper before wiping it away. "That's all I can do." He smiles bravely. "The internal bleeding has stopped. She'll live." He staggers, grabbing desperately to the railing. She slips an arm around his waist, holding him until he's steady. "I, on the other hand—"

Varric comes up. "We should probably get you to bed, Sparkler."

"Why Varric. I had no idea of your persuasions! I am shocked, just shocked."

Varric chuckles, switching places with Josephine. "Keep dreaming." Varric holds Dorian up remarkably well given the difference in stature. Dwarves have always been strong as stone, steadfast. She supposes it should not surprise her. "Now's your chance to see her, Ruffles. All that hand wringing downstairs has to stop sometime."

Josephine smiles apprehensively and gathers her courage. She enters the room again. It smells of dirt, blood and sweat. She makes sure not to crinkle her nose. A torch burns brightly. The sheets are covered with muck. Josephine curses her inability to help. She has no magic. She is no warrior. She has no healing capabilities. Words can't help this. Evelyn rests on the bed, under a pile of pillows that combined amount to one she is surely accustomed to. Josephine comes closer. She picks up a chair and settles it next to the bed.

Maker, what has happened to her? Her pale white blonde hair is brown and red. Where is she? Hidden beneath the scrapes and the swelling and the blood. There's a bucket beside the nightstand and a cloth. Josephine dips the cloth in water, wringing it out and lifting it, stopping just short of touching her face. Evelyn hasn't looked at her. Evelyn hasn't spoken a word. Maybe she doesn't want to see her.

"Is it all right that I am here?" Rain taps on the windows and roof. Lightning eviscerates the skies. Evelyn's quiet, wheezing breath is loudest of all. "Evelyn?" The Herald blinks. "I am glad you're well." That isn't the word. "Alive. I have been so worried. I haven't slept." Josephine wonders why they always seem to come together when Evelyn has suffered violence. Is that the sort of magnitude required for them to discard the armor they wear around one another? Are they only brought together by a brief recognition of what might be lost?

Evelyn looks at her, silver eyes bright against the darkness lining them, along the blood caked to her face. "What are you doing here?" The words are a splintered whisper, slivers burying into Josephine.

"Cassandra sent word to Leliana some time ago, informing us that Keep Caer Bronach had been claimed. I came as the ambassador to the Inquisition, thinking we might encourage nobles to visit now that Crestwood is safe." Was supposed to be safe. Evelyn grimaces but Josephine cannot determine why. There are too many possibilities. "I was also hoping we might speak." What was it that she wanted to say? That their involvement was a poor idea? It seems ludicrous. Why was that her intention? Even if that intention remained, she could not end things now. "But that is for another day."

Evelyn does not object. Josephine wonders if she heard. They seem removed as any strangers. Josephine wondered, on the way to Crestwood, whether their reunion would be awkward, given how they parted. Could any look upon them and think there is something more between them? Had she not imagined they might embrace and kiss upon reuniting? How foolish that seems, like something out of a storybook. Josephine brings the cloth to Evelyn's face. She winces but is still as Josephine wipes the mud from her face. "Does it hurt?" Eventually she shakes her head. A lie? The pretender Josephine begged her to be?

Josephine continues until her face is relatively clean, the water in the bucket reduced to muddy paste. Now it is easier to see the lacerations, the bruising, the puffiness, the knot along her forehead. Despite how terrible she looks, Josephine's heart swells. Thank the Maker. She lives. Josephine palms her face. "What happened?" Evelyn averts her eyes. "I know I have… been unkind. I'm afraid I've been quite selfish. Without even knowing." She smiles nervously. "It must be a noble tendency I am woefully unaware of. And for that, I apologize. If you have a wish to unburden yourself… I am at your disposal."

"You've said that before. I don't believe you."

A silence passes. Josephine releases her. Minutes trickle by. Evelyn sniffles and then she leans forward, crying soundlessly, forehead pressed to her knees, arms around her own shoulders.

Josephine sits stiffly, fingers clenched around the dirty cloth. Does Evelyn weep from pain? From her experiences? For the great disappointment Josephine has surely caused her? She doesn't know. She thinks it pitiful that her role in the Inquisition is to put others at ease, yet she is unable to do so when she most desperately wishes to.

Evelyn's trembling form is smaller without the armor. Josephine feels guilty for wanting to have seen her without it. Eventually the crying ceases. Evelyn sniffles once more and apologizes. She keeps her arms locked tightly around herself, palms not pressing on anything. Josephine sees the cuts, raw and red that line them. More scars in the making. What has she suffered?  _Why could I not have suffered it instead?_

Josephine ponders the thought. She cannot endure any kind of pain and has often gone out of her way to avoid it. If pain has come, as it did with the matter with her family, she has resolved it as swiftly as possible. So what could she gain by taking Evelyn's place? Could she have survived such torment? Would she instead have begged for it to end? Would she have bargained? Compromised? Would she have taken coin by coin off any dowry offered as her body became host to injury? Her hand unconsciously go to her ribs where the assassin's blade cut. It's wrong to think that way, she supposes.

Will Evelyn ever tell her what happened? If only she could prove to the Herald that her confidence would be well placed. That it would be different. She feels young and stupid. She can't help but think that Leliana would tease her about this. How can she navigate this relationship so poorly?

She moves to the tub and runs the water. It's lukewarm but Josephine cannot bear the thought of Evelyn sleeping while covered in such a mess. Josephine kneels beside the tub, threading her fingers through the water until it's sufficiently warm. She stands and reluctantly faces Evelyn. The Herald keeps her head down. Josephine is frightened to go near her. Frightened to injure her in some other way, frightened to be rejected when she wants to be close. Perhaps it is selfish to think of her wants at a time like this. Perhaps she's always been selfish.

Josephine joins her, sitting at the edge of the bed. Josephine's never sat on anything so filthy in her life, been near anyone so filthy in her life. In another time in her life, this might have made for a funny story. "I've drawn you a bath." Evelyn shakes her head. "I could aid you, if you'll allow it." Nothing. "I think you'll feel better." Would she prefer if Cassandra were here? Why can't she ask?

"It'll hurt. Everything hurts."

Evelyn's clothing is stiff with grime. There are small pebbles, blades of grass buried in it. Josephine touches her shoulder carefully. Evelyn flinches. Josephine removes her hand. "How can I help you? Perhaps you wish to be left alone. Or… perhaps you would like for me to get Cassandra?" More silence. It could be the questions are too much and Evelyn is in no shape to answer them. It could be Evelyn wants nothing to do with her. It is jarring, considering how they last parted in Skyhold. She rises. The bed shifts. Evelyn lifts her head. "I'll bring her at once."

There's a soft, itchy scratching on her wrist. Josephine looks down. Evelyn's fingers, streaked earthy red. Josephine takes a breath, grateful at the contact. She turns, kneeling beside her. Her finery is being soiled. Some part of her twitches. Josephine reaches for Evelyn's hand and decides against it. "It is not my wish to keep hurting you." Evelyn has already been hurt deeply. There are gashes everywhere, blood, her lip is split, but not like before, not like that cabin outside of Ostwick. What happened that day? Something hooked into them, something Josephine has been unable to let go. Has Evelyn? Why are they drawn to one another? Despite their arguments they keep returning.

"You're ruining your dress."

Josephine is bewildered by the flat affect to her voice. "It doesn't matter." Evelyn lowers her gaze. Josephine touches her face, lifts enough to brush their lips together. There's a connection of warmth. Evelyn's lips are chapped, scratchy; the taste of blood lingers. She is alive. She is alive. Her fingers fall to Evelyn's wrist. Evelyn jerks her hand away but she finds Josephine's fingertips, reassuring her after the shards of doubt filled her. "Have I overstepped?" What was she thinking, kissing her? Why can she not use her words? A moment and Evelyn shakes her head stiffly. "I prayed for you," Josephine tells Evelyn's wrists, noting how bruised and peeled they are. "I admit… I have never been particularly faithful…but I did not know who else to turn to." Faith has been a commodity for finding common ground, for ending needless arguments. But she turned to the Maker this time, did she not? And He returned her. Maybe that's something. "If I were a mage… who knows what magic I might have invoked for your safe return." She thinks of her fingertip opening along Evelyn's blade. She supposes it might have been dark magic, but is the Inquisitor, is Evelyn, not worth that?

"Those are… dangerous words, ambassador."

Any templar would think so. "I suppose you have always made me act a little recklessly. How is it that you make me question everything I thought unshakable?" Evelyn looks at her, wordless but gauging. "I cannot recall a time I ever felt so helpless. I wanted to mount a rescue. But what can I do? I can't fight. I'm not Cassandra." A furrowing of her eyebrow. "Was I to rescue you with words?" she laughs bitterly, her eyes heating, pressing a kiss to Evelyn's hand. "I am so sorry I did not have it in my power to prevent this."

Evelyn looks around the room, a hand tentatively lighting on Josephine's hair. "I'll take a bath now."

Evelyn labors to her feet. Josephine rises after removing the Herald's boots. Evelyn stands, wilted as any of the greenery in Crestwood. Her eyes see nothing, see everything. She is still as Josephine carefully undoes her clothing, still sticky and wet in places. The shirt is peeled away. It falls with a damp thud to the floor. Evelyn's torso is battered with bruises and cuts, her ivory skin a palette of colors. Josephine is careful not to touch her. Evelyn doesn't meet her eyes. Josephine watches her chin, alternating between rigid and quivering, the tremors soon spreading out to the rest of her.

"Did you want to speak of what happened?" Josephine asks.

Evelyn shakes her head. "Can you just talk? Say something? Anything. I can't…" she brings a half curled hand to her temple.

Josephine half nods, feeling dizzy herself. "Have I ever told you of how I cried when my parents sent me to Val Royeaux for my schooling?" Another shake of her head. "Before I left Antiva, I knew very little outside of my family. Antivan families are close, you see, always enjoying our meals together, meddling in one another's affairs, but supportive, warm. I fought so hard against my mother when she wished to send me away to expand my horizons. 'You don't love me!' I shouted. I was such a dramatic child. But Antivan mothers are masters of guilt. I, a young, silly thing, was no rival. So off to Orlais I went. I expected to hate it. In fact, I composed several letters in my head as I rode by carriage, telling of my discontent. It was my intention to write them immediately upon arrival but when I got there… What a place it was. Such architecture and fashion, such culture. I fell in love with Val Royeaux. I suppose that was my first love. I didn't know it at the time but I was desperate for adventure. My family had kept me so tightly under their wing while I was in Antiva. Antivan girls must be pure, controlled, ladylike. All we have are our purity, our wiles. I wanted soirees, romance, excitement, intrigue." Evelyn's eyes are somewhat more focused on her now. "So, what was a girl, completely out of her element to do? I, being young, foolish, capricious—decided the life of a bard was for me." Evelyn looks into her eyes, instead of down at Josephine's hands, undoing the laces of her pants. "I suppose you might find that difficult to imagine."

"I don't know."

Josephine smiles faintly. "I did it for a time. I threw myself into the Game. How exciting it was, this world of pretend, with very real stakes. You have heard the stories, yes, of the men and women who involve themselves in the court without knowing what they're getting into. Use a wrong fork in Ferelden and you'll get a raised eyebrow. Use the wrong one in Val Royeaux and they'll bury it in your hand. Or throat. I've seen both. Most disturbing but, I admit, I, along with some others were  _fascinated._  It must seem mad." She eases the pants down.

Evelyn hasn't looked away. "What color are your eyes?"

"What do you think?"

"I can't make heads or tails of it."

"They change with the light. Sometimes, even I am not certain." Josephine removes Evelyn's underclothes.

Conflict on her face. "Are you still a bard?"

"Heavens, no." Evelyn lifts one hand, drops another, covering herself. Josephine flushes at her modesty. "Shall I go?" Evelyn frowns. Josephine turns around and waits until Evelyn shuffles into the tub. She says 'okay' and Josephine turns again. Does Evelyn feel vulnerability at her nakedness? Does she feel as if she is at a disadvantage? Josephine pulls away her dress, letting it fall to a crumple on the floor. She tells herself she only wants to keep it clean. She removes the shift. When she is in her small clothes she goes to Evelyn. There is a sponge in a bucket beside the bath. Josephine picks it up. "May I?" A nod. Josephine dips the sponge in the water, easing it over Evelyn's arms, wiping the gunk away. Likely they'll have to drain the tub and fill it again to get everything off.

"You stopped being a bard."

Josephine blinks, having been staring at Evelyn's bleeding palms. "Ah, yes. In the end, I could not 'hack' it, as they say. An assassin was sent after my patron. I forget the reason. It is likely inconsequential but these things, in the Game, these small slights are a matter of life and death. As a bard, it was my duty to keep my patron safe. So, I found this would be assassin. We tousled. It would not surprise you, I suppose, to hear that I am a poor fighter." That gets a small smile out of her. "In any case—he had a knife. I was terrified. The last time I was so scared—was in Skyhold when that assassin went after you instead."

"What happened?"

"I pushed him. We were at the top of the stairs and well… you can imagine what happened." She squeezes the water from the sponge gently on Evelyn's head, watching her hair go from red and brown to pale again. "As it turns out, I knew that young man. We had gone to parties together. He was a friend." And she killed him. "I thought a lot of things. I thought if I had only used my words, my voice. Violence is not the answer. I swore that. I vowed it. But, when that assassin in Skyhold came. Could you have stopped him with words? I couldn't. And so, I broke my vow. I pushed him. He fell and… he clung on. Did you know that?" She cups a hand of water, spilling it over Evelyn's hair. She remembers too vividly how Evelyn gasped for breath, the knife buried in her. "I don't know what compelled me to just watch. He hurt me. He nearly killed you. So I let him beg for my assistance. But I didn't give it to him. I let him fall." A soft sigh. "Sometimes I wonder if I've ever truly left the Game behind." She has missed the mystery, the sordid nights. "Sometimes, I think, as you must—that I am a terrible person."

"I don't think that." She sounds sorry about it. Josephine continues to wash her, discovering more bruising, scratches, cuts with every layer of dirt she sheds. She trails her hand gingerly along Evelyn's arms, as if to confirm that she is still there. The water is red and brown. She drains it and begins to fill the tub again. "I'm cold." Josephine moves behind her, kneeling on the hard floorboards, snaking her arms around Evelyn's shoulders, resting her chin in the crook of her neck. For minutes they watch the water fill the tub, listening to it churn despite the relative evenness of the surface. Evelyn touches Josephine's arm absently, blood, diluted by water, pink as watermelon juice running down the palms of her hands. "I don't want to be the Inquisitor anymore."

Josephine's arms clench around Evelyn. She exhales shakily. Ice crawls over her. Evelyn mutters her name, pained. It is difficult to relinquish her grip. Perhaps she wants to keep her from escaping. Or she wants to keep her sheltered. Protectiveness can very much seem like violence at times. Control. She loosens her hold and closes her eyes, her voice a murmur. "Do what you must. I release you from the promise I forced you to make." Who is she to have such authority over a person's life? It was arrogant to presume she knew better. She would see no further harm come to the Herald of Andraste. Not for her word. How could she live with the guilt should something happen? How would it not destroy her? She presses a kiss to Evelyn's neck, warm, slick, feverish and shuts the water off.

* * *

A/N: Jesus fuck these chapters are long.

 


	13. Jagged

"I take it the Inquisitor will not be in attendance," Cullen says.

It has been an hour from the designated meeting time. Josephine has gone through the intelligence that Leliana's gathered, chatting absently with Cassandra. Their eyes flick to the door, turning their heads at every sound but Evelyn does not arrive. "That… would appear to be the case."

Leliana tsks, running her fingers through her shaggy hair before pulling the hood back over her head. "I knew appointing her Inquisitor was a mistake." Josephine nearly corrects her.  _She_  is the one who had doubts. Leliana was more than happy to appoint her as a figurehead.

"She has gone through an ordeal," Cassandra says. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick. Josephine has watched her chew on them nervously while waiting. What thoughts has she been tormenting herself with? Evelyn has said little to Cassandra but she has said little to anyone. "One that should have been in my power to stop."

Josephine thinks to reassure her but Cullen speaks first. He is pale and sweaty, his eyes glassy, fingers trembling. Maker, is he all right? He has been so short-tempered lately. "Then that's it? We let her walk away? Do nothing?"

"Even if she wishes to give up her role, Lady Trevelyan did seal the rifts in Crestwood." Josephine points out. It is the title she no longer wishes to have. Though she did stumble in her quest to seal those rifts. They practically dragged her from location to location, forcing her hand up to the sky. Mayor Gregory Dedrick was gone by the time they discovered his deception. "Remarkable, given what she suffered."

Leliana is not moved. "Thedas needs an Inquisitor. They know her name. Some know her face. It is too late to decide she no longer wants this. Why not walk away before?" Leliana paces the war room. "No, we need her here. Her feelings are irrelevant. This is war. We don't get to run because we've been hurt."

"That is extreme, Leliana." Josephine frowns. "We promised her that if she was to be our Herald, if she was to be our Inquisitor, we would protect her. That… sadly, was not the case, despite everyone's best efforts. It is up to us to make amends should we wish for her return."

"Has she spoken to anyone of what happened?" Cullen asks.

Leliana and Cassandra look to Josephine. Josephine fights the hot crawling up her cheeks. "She has said nothing to me of what she endured." Frustrating. But, she is aware, it will take time to repair what she fractured. She will give her that time. Perhaps eventually…

Cassandra crosses her arms. The room is chilly. "Hawke tells that when Carver found Evelyn, she was fearful of the wardens."

"The wardens?" Leliana shakes her head. "Why?"

"Neither could say. Perhaps it has something to do with what Carver is investigating. If the wardens are working with Corypheus…"

"The wardens working with…" Leliana is taken aback. "The wardens may be disappearing but that is too far. They would never ally with him."

"Either way, we won't know waiting around here," Cullen grouses. "We need to get to Adamant. The Inquisitor needs to be  _here_. Cassandra—perhaps if you seek her out—"

"No, that won't work." Leliana muses. "The Inquisitor and Cassandra don't appear to be on speaking terms."

Cassandra scowls. "Really, Leliana? You spy on your own people?"

"I have my little birds. Josie. Go speak to the Inquisitor. Perhaps you can persuade her to come out of hiding and attend to her duties. You have a talent for charming even snakes."

"Lady Trevelyan is no snake." Josephine looks at the group warily. "I am not amenable to this. What she needs is time to recuperate, not war room meetings."

"It's been over a week. She's been healed. The bruises are gone. The bleeding has ceased," Leliana says exasperated. Josephine cannot argue her words. Yet, there will be scars. And the events are not erased regardless of her appearance. "The Hero of Ferelden was never so self-indulgent."

"The Hero of Ferelden is gone," Cassandra says. Leliana twitches. "We must work with what we have. In the meanwhile, I think we can take care of these matters. If Evelyn needs rest I say we let her have it."

"Why?" Leliana glances at her. "Do you think that will buy you good will? What happened is over and done with. She took that sword and she held it over her head and declared herself an Inquisitor of faith. She is the Inquisitor, whatever any of us want her to be. We will wait here until she arrives. All day if we must. We will not make it easy for her to walk away."

Josephine breathes deeply, recalling the inn in Crestwood, mud everywhere, the smell of blood, how flushed Evelyn's skin was, how she bowed her head when Josephine said she would not push her. "I told her I would support whatever decision she made."

Leliana's head snaps to her. "Why would you do that?" Cullen and Cassandra exchange glances. "Josie, you were brought to the Inquisition to be an asset, not a hindrance. Why enable her behavior? No wonder she's made no effort to do anything. Need I remind you that the good of the Inquisition takes precedence over your personal attachments?"

Now she cannot prevent her blush but she is unsure of whether she's embarrassed or furious. "That is not fair. You do not know what she has been through. You do not know how I have taken her to task." They glare. Leliana is so infuriating, so self-righteous at times. Josephine sets her clipboard and quill down. "But I can see that the task has fallen upon me regardless of my opinion. I make no promises."

"You and I know well that promises can be broken. Make no promises," Leliana concedes. "Just get her here."

* * *

Josephine makes her way to Evelyn's chambers. She is not the only one to visit. Blackwall tried his own hand moments ago, rapping on the door to Evelyn's room before noticing Josephine. They froze upon seeing one another, deer in the face of a hunter. They parted ways in silence. Josephine is more anxious than before. She stares at the door that separates them. She doesn't knock. She won't take chances. She's on a mission. She takes the next flight of stairs up. Dread makes her stiff limbed and queasy.

Evelyn is reclined on the bed against a mountain of pillows. A stack of letters sit on her nightstand, a chantry book full of hymns facedown on the bedspread. Evelyn tenses, noticing her. Then relaxes, noticing her. Josephine breathes easier. "Lady Ambassador."

Josephine remains at the head of the stairs. "Did you not hear Blackwall knocking?"

"I heard." She sits up lethargically. Her eyes are dark though the bruising has subsided significantly. "Will you stay there for the entirety of your visit?" Josephine slips closer, Evelyn's eyes following her movements. Emboldened, Josephine sits beside her on the bed. It seems a wild imagining that they have seen one another's naked bodies and still can appear unfamiliar, almost as strangers. "Leliana's messenger dropped off a stack of letters. Citizens of Thedas, sending me their gratitude. She's as subtle as a qunari in a chantry. Are these even real?" She pulls another one open, skimming the contents, her expression growing soft and then conflicted. She puts the letter away. "Varric's friend Isabela also sent letters. Friend fiction, Varric says."

"Oh?" She smiles. "What about?"

"Mostly sexual adventures with me, Leliana and Cullen." Her cheeks color. "She's drawn pictures." Has she? She tries to imagine Evelyn with Leliana or Cullen and cannot do so. The thought makes her twitch. "She's called it 'Andraste's Ass'. Presumably because of our connection to the chantry. And because of the sex." She looks at Josephine so soberly that it is difficult not to laugh.

"I did not think you so prudish, Lady Trevelyan."

"I'm not sure I agree with Andraste's name being used for smutty literature." A beat. "Tantalizing as it is."

Tantalizing? She suspected Evelyn's tastes ran solely towards women. Was she wrong? Perhaps not. It could be that she doesn't find the idea of being with Leliana entirely offensive. Josephine shifts on the bed. "If I asked which of the two you find most tantalizing, would you tell me?"

"Cullen, of course."

Hm. He is certainly pretty enough. "Will you keep this licentious material from me?"

"You are a lady, no?" She smiles grimly. "And Leliana's your friend. Wouldn't that be weird?" Her eyes are everywhere but on Josephine. "Are you all right? You seem bothered."

Bothered? Frazzled. Nervous. Their interactions, despite Crestwood, have been limited. "It doesn't occur to you that I may be jealous of the affections you're giving in this story?" Evelyn is guarded, perhaps suspicious. Josephine had not thought her mood so sour. "It's… I've… had a small dispute with Leliana. It is nothing to concern yourself with." Evelyn waits for her to continue but Josephine can't without lying. "Won't you speak to me of how you are, instead? Perhaps we should walk the grounds."

The doors to the balcony are open, a cool breeze making its way in. Has anyone sighted Evelyn outside her room since returning to Skyhold? Evelyn gives a shake of her head at the suggestion, a packet of letters still in hand. "What was your dispute with Leliana about?"

"A difference of opinion. That is all." She slips closer and smells the soapy fragrance that clings to Evelyn's skin, remembering how her hair, nearly white, was stained with blood not long ago. "Let's not speak of it."

"They're disappointed, aren't they?" She's troubled. Josephine expected fire, indignation. Instead, she is uncertain. "Do you think I'm being a coward?" Josephine shakes her head. Maker, no. What she went through. No sane person would willingly continue. "I'm not sure. I meant to go to the meeting. I thought I was ready. I got as far as the door before the great hall."

"You're hurt."

"No, I'm not. Potions, magic and it's as if it never happened."

But she has a speck of red in her eye. It will go away in time. "It did happen."

"It's healed."

"Not all of it." She touches the back of Evelyn's hand, turning it over to see the lines where the blade cut into her palms. Josephine traces the dark red gashes, glaring against her pale skin, and kisses them. Evelyn is still, saying nothing as Josephine lowers her hands back to the bed. She remembers how Evelyn kissed her hand in such a fashion on the mountain. She remembers trying desperately not to think of it.

"Did they send you here to get me to that meeting?" Josephine's throat is dry. Eventually she nods. Evelyn nods as absently. Are there rewards for honesty or only reprimands? Honesty and integrity do not always coincide. "And all of that just now. Was that part of it?" She shakes her head. "Can't you talk?"

"Forgive me. You make me nervous." Josephine stares at Evelyn's hands, white as lilies. "I meant what I said in Crestwood. If you no longer want to be the Inquisitor, I will not force your hand."

"Then why are you here?"

"Is it so strange to think I might want to see you?"

"I thought you'd prefer to see Blackwall instead." Evelyn sighs, shakes her head, what little energy she had extinguished. Josephine thinks to tell her that matters between herself and Blackwall are finished but can't be sure that would resolve anything. What is between them is more than the grey warden. Evelyn reclines against the pillows, an arm draped behind her head. "If you don't hurry back they'll think you've failed to persuade me. Or worse."

"I assume you speak of amorous dealings." The wording makes Evelyn smile faintly. Is she thinking of her as laced up again? "Let them think it." That surprises her. Josephine moves, pulling her dress up enough to give her legs the necessary room to climb over Evelyn and stretch out onto her back beside her. Josephine tenses. This is improper. She wryly wonders where that same concern for propriety was when Evelyn settled between her legs what seems like ages ago. Evelyn turns her head to look at her. Fire builds in Josephine's chest. She always holds her breath around her. Anticipating. Nervous.

"Won't they be angry? You're the ambassador. I'm… nothing anymore." Josephine strokes her hair. Yes. They will be angry. She will find a way to smooth things over. Evelyn's eyes flutter closed. "How long until I lose the room, you think?"

"There are many rooms in Skyhold, Lady Trevelyan. Many a great deal more private than this one. And considerably safer than being Inquisitor." A little frown touches Evelyn's face. Josephine wishes to press her lips to it until her brow is smooth again. "I would not think it such a hindrance."

"Mh. But who will want me if I'm not the Inquisitor?"

"I am certain we will think of someone. There are rumors circulating about a particularly prissy noblewoman having expressed interest."

"A pity I'll never be able to get her into my bed." She opens her eyes. "Laced up noblewomen are no fun, I'm afraid."

Josephine stifles her smile. "Perhaps if there weren't a certain spymaster or former templar involved." Josephine reaches over quickly and takes the stack of letters. Evelyn must be under the weather. Josephine gladdens for her advantage. She sorts through the letters until she finds Isabela's, holding it over her head as Evelyn tries weakly to grab at it.

"The letter was addressed to me. Have you no courtesy, ambassador?"

Her own words, returned to her. Josephine smiles. "None."

"Fine." Evelyn falls back against the pillows. "Enjoy reading about the marvelous things my mouth does."

Josephine already knows the wonders of her mouth. Regardless, she dismisses the words. It cannot be so brazen. She settles beside Evelyn and reads through the pages, first with a smile on her face and then in a feverish daze, turning each page more quickly than the last, re-reading some paragraphs. Her eyes widen. "There are… did you see here? Two paragraphs dedicated to Cullen's… To Cullen's…"

"She has lots of adjectives. Which do you prefer?"

Josephine swallows. His appendages are described in great detail: length, width, how it bobs in anticipation, as well as the considerable attention heaped upon it. This is scandalous. How can she ever look him in the eye?  _Will you look lower?_  It is remarkable her face hasn't melted off. Whatever Evelyn's reaction is, Josephine does not see, incapable of taking her eyes off the pages. She keeps reading. It isn't long before Leliana and Cullen turn their attention to Evelyn. These things described, these drawings. She did not know such things were possible. This is far smuttier than Swords and Shields. "This is filthy," she says breathlessly. Nor would Leliana say such things.

She must stop reading. She cannot stop reading. She reads until she finishes, hot and frustrated. Evelyn is watching her. How long has she been watching her? A teasing slow smile. Josephine folds the paper and carefully returns it to the envelope. She turns on the bed and faces her. Evelyn touches her face, fingers gliding along her flushed cheeks. "You seem in better spirits than before."

Yes. The matter with Leliana troubled her. Somehow… this erased it, though she wonders that she can read such a thing with players so close to her. Does she have voyeuristic tendencies she was unaware of?  _As if it would be the first time._  Ah, yes. Her patron did have his quirks. Not an entirely novel one, in Orlais. The thought of Evelyn with the two of them… She isn't sure how to feel, other than jealous. She does not wish to share Evelyn with anyone. The thought scares her. Josephine closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation of Evelyn's fingertips, conscious to keep her hands to herself, despite how she longs to touch her. "Perhaps your company has something to do with it." How desperately she wishes to look at her face. She recalls it in her mind's eye, tracing over her features, the zig zag of the scar that runs down her lips. Truthfully, she has a very innocent face. One would never imagine her capabilities. "I must admit, this Isabela has a talent."

* * *

They give up on Josephine or Evelyn making an appearance. Cullen departs, off to give instruction to his men to remain vigilant of Venatori. Leliana remains, glaring at the war table, contemplating what must be done. Cassandra walks the length of the table. Not only Ferelden but also Orlais. With these Venatori they must watch their borders. Leliana is in a foul mood. Cassandra steels her resolve, knowing what she is going to say will not help matters.

"You were too hard on Josephine."

Leliana scoffs, her eyes sharp. "Not you, too. Josie is very dear to me, Cassandra, but she is a spoiled brat. Trust me, I know her. Sometimes she doesn't think of others as she should. She wants to have it both ways. She wants compromise. Sometimes the last thing one should do is compromise."

Leliana isn't thinking clearly. Forcing others into negotiations and compromise were the very reasons Josephine was brought on board. Leliana would be pleased did it not interfere with her preferences. "How is forcing the Inquisitor to attend to her duties going to help matters? If we don't give her some space she may take off in the night."

"She wouldn't get far." Leliana studies the table. For an instant Cassandra thinks she'll sweep her arm over it, knocking aside every marker, starting fresh. Leliana has always been radical that way. The changes she would make sweeping, but revolutionary. Blood would be spilled. Cassandra thought Leliana might become softer after Justinia's death. She would no longer be called upon to do such troubling things. Instead, she is flint. Given a spark, she will burn everything to the ground. "I'm surprised you're here. Hawke remains. Have you had all of that curiosity sated? I remember you were so eager to find her. How is she?"

"She is annoying." Cassandra says. Anyway, she doesn't wish to speak of Hawke, nor does she appreciate whatever it is that Leliana is trying to imply. "I'm concerned about the grey wardens."

"Because of Trevelyan? She jumps at her own shadow."

"She jumps at  _you_  and for good reason." That draws a small smile from her. "In any case, you've always had a blind spot towards the wardens. They're not all King Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden."

"Things were far more dire then. Not even Alistair complained this much."

"When has Evelyn complained?"

"She's walked away. What greater complaint?"

She hasn't walked away. She has renounced it. Cassandra hopes she will reconsider. It would be nice if she could intimidate her into taking the position anew. Yet, Hawke's words have stuck with her no matter how she tries to shake them. They are using Evelyn. She is an instrument. She has been little more until recently. Cassandra hasn't forgotten the woman Carver brought in, battered, unrecognizable. Cassandra wonders if she'd be as protective if she had alerted everyone of her absence and had all of the Inquisition's forces combing Crestwood. They might have found her then. They might have spared her. But what if the enemy had heard? Would they have killed her on the spot? She doesn't know and it's driving her mad. "She'll return."

"When? When we've lost too much ground to recover?" She considers. "She has her secrets. We select the right one—"

"No." Leliana looks at her as if she doesn't understand the meaning of the word. "We will not do that. Not to our own."

"Honey doesn't always work. Unless—you're offering your services?"

Cassandra scowls. So now she is to be bait. "What was the meaning of your words during the meeting? Is it true what you said? Evelyn and Josephine?" She still can't imagine it. Were Evelyn's feelings toward her pretend? "Hawke said as much—"

"Hawke, Hawke, Hawke. What influence she has."

"Have you forgotten how long we looked for her? In any case—she is also of the opinion that we shouldn't push her. She thinks death would have been merciful. She thinks we ask too much."

"Hawke's opinion matters little to me. This war is her fault, isn't it?" Cassandra used to think that. Not anymore. "If she's so eager to give Evelyn her space, why not step in as temporary inquisitor?"

"As if she would do it. As if you would have her."

"Would you have her?"

Cassandra considers flipping the table over, seeing if the woman is capable of being startled, moved, anything. How easily she throws her cutting words, her taunts, as if tearing through paper. "Were  _you_  involved with her?"

Leliana laughs. "With Marian? That girl. No. I was not."

Marian, she says. How familiar. "What was she like?"

"There's little point in excavating the past, Cassandra. What she was, what I was—we're not anymore." A beat. "Except for you. You've always been strong as stone. Solid." She traces a gloved finger over the map of Ferelden. "Your record is without blemish. I did my homework. I searched hard for anything that our enemies might use against us. Why  _not_ be Inquisitor? You're fierce, brave, admired. It should always have been you."

"So you could complain to Cullen about me behind my back?"

"Silly Cassandra. I'd complain to your face."

"We work better as a team."

"That was then. This is now."

Cassandra laughs caustically. "This war has not gone so long, Leliana."

"War changes people. Whatever we were, we can't go back. Kirkwall was war. The Blight was war. The work we did for Justinia? War. Even the Inquisitor has changed." She sighs. "It's precisely why I'm so disappointed. She should be better. That… pathetic—cowardly woman she was… She should be gone now. She should be steel now. But she is soft."

"We can't all be iron women."

"You say that as if to insult me. We must harden in these circumstances. I will not coddle Josie. You will not coddle Evelyn. Their love, their affection? What's it worth in the face of the dead? They can't be lovers. Not like they want to be. They have their titles, their duties—that comes first."

"I disagree. You're overreacting. It could be… a dalliance."

"You think so? Responsibility has always been a lonely game. You should know that better than anyone. When was the last time you took a lover? You could have anyone. Protest if you must, but you know that when it's all said and done, you must give all of yourself. Anything less and we've lost."

"It cannot be that way. I think – now, more than ever, we should cling to—to these pieces that mark our humanity. We must hold on to passion—and caring. Otherwise, what's it all for?" Leliana smirks. Cassandra feels no anger, only a penetrating sadness. When did this happen to her? Has she always been this way?

* * *

Evelyn wakes, covered in a sheet of sweat. The room is cold or maybe she only thinks that because she can't stop shivering. Dreams of Crestwood. Dreams of Venatori. Dreams of the wardens. Dreams of raising the sword above her head and declaring herself a servant of faith. She touches her neck, sure there's mud stuck there, looks at her hands but in the dark she can see nothing. Her heart batters and she tries to calm herself.

It batters so quickly she thinks it will stop. Her breath is short. So short. She's dying. She must be dying. She clambers out of bed and struggles to the balcony, a hand over her heart, the breeze latching onto the sweat clinging to her and encasing her in ice. She wheezes. She wheezes. She wheezes. Skyhold spins below. Torches in the night swerving in dizzy half circles, first in one direction, then the other. She slumps, her back to the railing and stares into the black abyss that is her room. That, mercifully, doesn't spin.

She heaves air into her lungs but they don't fill. She closes her eyes, pressing her back firmly to the railing, focusing on the sensation, grounding herself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Pray. Eventually some calm returns to her. Her fingers have stopped trembling. She clenches them, willing them to remain still. Scraps of air stick to her lungs. For the moment, she believes she'll survive.

She stands and strips away the sweat soaked clothing that sticks to her. It's been this way since returning to Skyhold. She thought she'd gotten away but she hadn't slept since Crestwood. She didn't know what monsters slumbered in her head. She bathes quickly and throws on a fresh set of clothes.

Skyhold is asleep. She leaves her room only after cinching the belt at her waist, a longsword at her side. She won't turn in for the night unless it's within reach. For all the good it did in Crestwood. She takes the steps down to the grand hall and can't help but to look for the light beneath Josephine's office. It's there, emanating warmly.

Josephine was with her in Crestwood. They marinated in silence. Eventually she was fit enough to be seen in public. Her body felt as if it'd been put through a meat grinder but how could she complain when she looked almost normal? Josephine helped her into the armor, her fingers moving carefully over the belts and latches.  _Is that too tight?_  Only the pressure on her heart. Evelyn only shook her head.

The last time their lips touched, Josephine was… Evelyn can't recall. Something about a dress. She only remembers pieces of that conversation. The perfume on Josephine's skin. That she would touch Evelyn when she was so… beaten. She considers entering. Knocking. But she can't. She's afraid, most afraid, of the ambassador to the Inquisition.

She walks the hall until she's outside, into the darkness where the wind whistles. The castle slumbers. She walks the perimeter, searching, warily, wearily, for any sign of a breach. The guards stand straighter. She nods guiltily. She's abandoned everyone, hasn't she? Why hasn't Josephine held her to her word? Another shiver, so fierce that it disrupts her step and she stumbles. She recovers swiftly and keeps walking, stopping abruptly in the middle of the courtyard, looking up at the stars, so fiercely bright and beautiful that it seems a travesty to abandon hope. She nearly left on a night like this before.

She curls her fingers, bringing them to her forehead, panicked.

"Why are you still here?" Evelyn turns. Hawke saunters towards her, a collection of shadows until she's closer. Evelyn looks into her face, tinged blue in the night sky. Evelyn knows what she means. She won't pretend. She won't be coaxed. She has no answer. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd see your face again. I thought to myself, 'if she leaves, she'll do it in the night'. People say it's easiest to pass away in their sleep. For the dead. For the living. You don't look as if you're going anywhere."

"You sound disappointed."

Hawke shrugs. She walks. Evelyn lags behind her, directionless. "Carver has come clean. He tells that the wardens are so terrified of this Calling and Corypheus that they've turned to blood magic. I don't give a damn if you're a warden or not—blood magic is bad news."

Blood magic. Maker preserve them. "I suppose you've never dabbled."

"Is that sarcasm I detect? If you must know, I haven't. Maker, you templars are all the same. Blood magic everywhere. It isn't. Except Kirkwall," she glances back with a smile and waits for Evelyn to catch up. "I don't ask every templar I run into if they've raped and murdered a mage."

"If things were so desperate in Kirkwall why  _didn't_  you?"

"Rape and murder? There was plenty of that already." Evelyn glowers. "Oh. Blood magic. Well, how else could I have remained so delightfully superior? So many maleficarum. 'Not all mages', I can say. I thought about it," she admits, nodding somberly. Evelyn suspects it's part of her presentation, "but decided against it in the end."

"Why?"

"Because it's bad."

"Everyone knows that. Why did  _you_  decide against it?"

"You say that as if it's something we all itch to do. It isn't. In Kirkwall it happened because mages were frightened. I was too. But I thought, 'if I do this, and it consumes me, I could wipe Kirkwall out.' We both know how naughty abominations can be. Have you seen the way… they just tear through everything until all you find are wet scraps that used to be people? Inside of people?" She blinks, waking from a memory. "You know." Evelyn walks. "We could leave tonight." Evelyn waits for Hawke to catch up. "This mess with the wardens, it's not my problem. I've dealt with enough shit to last a lifetime. There's no point in staying. The longer you stay, the longer you lead them on. They still think you're Inquisitor. The faster they know they can't rely on you, the better." The wording makes Evelyn's head spin. "You've given them enough. You've given them more than enough. This is not selfish. We are allowed our lives."

"What about Carver?"

"The scary warden? He'd be fine on his own."

So she mocks her for it. What does she know? Have the heroes of Thedas ever tried to take her down? Has she ever known such a disorienting betrayal? Whatever anger she holds dwindles quickly. What Anders did… Hawke must know. "You'd really leave him?"

"I'd be doing him a favor. Have you ever wondered if your fortune comes at another's expense? I've started to."

"What about…"

"What about  _what_? I don't understand why you're prolonging the inevitable. You can get out of this. You can leave this life behind. It's not cowardly. It's  _smart_. What we've had placed on us—nobody deserves that. Why do you still sleep in the Inquisitor's room? You're unraveling, Evelyn. Faster than ever. You haven't left your bloody room in over a week. You come out at night when they can't see you shake. This is your chance."

Evelyn acutely feels every beat of her heart. Adrenaline and terror course through her veins. Hawke's eyes are as cold and bright as the stars. What was she in another life? She knew Leliana. She knew Varric. She couldn't have been like this.  _If I stay, is this what I'll become_? She won't stay, she's already made the decision. "I'm not leaving tonight."

"When? What's keeping you here?"

She doesn't know. "I can't walk away. Not in the night." She fights the quaking threatening her. "I still have this," she lifts her hand, pulsing with emerald light. "No one else can seal those rifts. I can still help—"

"They will demand more. You can't straddle both lines, Evelyn. Eventually everyone has to pick a side."

People always say that. But why does it have to be that way? Why the templars  _or_  the mages? People can compromise. It doesn't have to be one or the other. There's value to compromise. The thought startles her. "If you're so set on leaving, you know where the gates are. I think you're trying to help me." Isn't that what she's wanted? For someone to care about her? Acknowledge how difficult it's been? She never expected the Champion of Kirkwall to be the one to stand up for her. " _Thank you._  Everything you've been through—Maker, I'm sorry for it. But whatever similarities we have, we are not the same. We do not walk the same path."

* * *

Crestwood was splashed in golden sunlight when they left, the rain stopped and the dead allowed their rest.  _Crestwood is finally ready for noble visitors; a fine time to have the Inquisition's ambassador there._  Leliana has been inclined to taunting her. It's different than her usual teasing. Josephine suspects she is deeply troubled by the possibility of Evelyn leaving them.  _And you are not?_ Why else has she remained and not gone to Crestwood where she might do considerable good?

Josephine has not dwelled on it. In the beginning she feared Evelyn's absence in a different way. It was a matter of stakes and reputations. Now other things frighten her. She cannot deny that Leliana has some reason for caution. What happened in the war room was inexcusable. The Inquisition does come first. But is there not a way to marry her duty to her convictions? She believes so, as such, she does not feel entirely culpable. The advisors have their strengths. It is her job to mediate and search for meaningful ways to cooperate.

Regardless, she has started making amends. For Cullen, she purchased a chess set of the finest materials. For Leliana, a golden pin. Silly and ugly, in her estimation, despite the craftsmanship. What are nugs but oversized, hairless rats? But she knows Leliana has a fondness for them. Gifts will not resolve anything. Her slight will not be forgiven but it is a path to communication. Cassandra cautioned her to steer clear of Leliana.  _You know how she gets when she doesn't get her way._  Oh, yes.

Josephine finds her in the rookery. The birds puff up to see her, as if knowing she's there to sweet talk their mistress. Black feathers litter the ground, the sour smell of their waste permeating the air. She does not doubt that some stray piece of it will catch on the tail of her dress. Leliana knows how she hates coming here. Josephine is counting on her remembering.

The spymaster sits at a humble table. Leliana is not one for material things, no matter how opulent and extravagant her tastes ran back in the day. "Josephine." She doesn't look up, her face passively set on the piece of paper before her. "Things must be desperate if you're visiting me here." She sets her quill aside and turns her face up. She smiles but there is no warmth in her eyes. "Truth be told, I've been looking for you."

Not very well, it would seem. "So I have hidden from the spymaster of the Inquisition." One can leave the Game but the Game never leaves you. She appraises Leliana carefully before sitting on the bench beside her. "Perhaps I'd serve better as one of your birds and not the ambassador."

Leliana bows her head with a small smile. "You do have your charms. Who knows? I wanted to apologize for what happened in the war room. I was angry. And when Cassandra spoke for you? I was irritated. I thought—'she doesn't see things past the immediate moment', but now I'm not so sure. Maybe she's right."

Josephine's smile outruns her thoughts. This is certainly a quick turnaround from the icy shoulder Leliana's been giving her. "I can't say I like my commitment to the Inquisition questioned."

"And I wouldn't have asked you to join us if I doubted it." She gets to her feet, the crows cawing, hopping on their perches. She looks at them and they silence, giving her gloved fingers little love pecks when she touches along the bars of the cages. "Whatever is going on with you and the Inquisitor is none of my business. If you must know, my agents mentioned that you appeared distraught while she was missing. I thought it might be because you were closer to her than you were leading any of us to believe." Josephine takes a breath and thins her lips. "She has been withdrawn, hasn't she?" She has. Leliana sighs. "As much as she disappoints me, it seems we are destined to keep sharing similar experiences. I told you about my time in Orlais with Marjolaine, yes? Luckily, Evelyn did not share precisely the same fate." A moment. "I think she's stronger than she gives herself credit for."

"You and I both, Leliana. However… everything is still fresh. It is quite difficult to see clearly when you have barely escaped." She stands. "I know Evelyn is not the only one to disappoint you. I told her I would support her decision if she wanted to leave the title behind. I know it is not what any of us want but what good would she be if she is not invested in her role? Do you wish for her to become like Hawke? That woman is so hopeless and resentful. I do not want that for the Inquisitor."

"The former inquisitor." Leliana goes to the window to look out. The skies are growing grey again, the temperatures cooler by the night. "She has left her room and taken up residence elsewhere. Did you know? Of course you know." Josephine hadn't known. She swallows, her hands tightening. So. The process of distancing herself has begun. When will she walk away? When will she leave? Will she say goodbye? The room has become unsteady. Josephine focuses on a raven, its black glistening beak, the feathers puffed and exaggerated, tense. "But listen to me going on. What I wanted to say was… you deserve happiness. Whatever time you have left with Evelyn—make the best of it. Love her. Enjoy her. Whatever it is you want. We don't know when she'll be gone. Just because she leaves the Inquisition doesn't mean that Thedas will stop thinking of her as the Inquisitor. I'm quite worried, if you must know."

Josephine tells herself that Leliana's words aren't a subtle threat, a way to slip a knife of fear into her. She steps forward, stepping in a glob of bird shit in the process—  _how in the world do they get it out of their cages_ and thrusts the small box she brought to Leliana.

Leliana looks at it first with surprise and then suspicion. "It is a small thing." Leliana opens it cautiously, as if it may be a trap. A crinkle touches her brow and then her lips part, her eyes flicking quickly to Josephine. "It was custom made by that savant dwarf Sandal. It was not so easy to track him down." It cost a considerable fortune. A fortune, she laments, that others might question. "Though he was happy to fulfill the request. If you do not like it—well… I cannot think of anyone else who might want it."

"I haven't seen Sandal in years. This is so cute." This time her smile is genuine. "Thank you." She clasps Josephine to her fiercely before pulling away and pinning the brooch to her chest. "Well, what do you think?"

"You have convinced me that you can wear a potato sack and still strike quite the figure."

Leliana smiles again, touching the pin gingerly. "Once, maybe. Not anymore. Ah, that reminds me." She moves to the corner and finds a whitewood box, engraved masterfully in the heraldry of the Inquisition. Leliana opens it and removes a crown, black as night, glistening sharp as curved daggers. Josephine is unsure of the material, knowing only that it must be expensive. It is breathtaking. "It was meant for our dear inquisitor. The original material was silverite. Quite pretty. It had an ethereal quality. But with Evelyn's coloring it didn't make sense. Black, yes? More comely." She sets it back in the box. "Would you mind delivering that to her? What she does with it…" She shrugs and hands it to Josephine. The box is heavier than it should be. "And could you tell her Mayor Dedrick has been found? Neither you nor Evelyn were at the meeting, so Cullen and I had to make some decisions. I suppose he and I will continue to do so until a new Inquisitor has been found."

Josephine nods. It had been her intention to game Leliana but it would seem that the spymaster has beaten her to the punch. She can't help but feel that she's walked into a trap. She can't help but feel that she's been menaced.

* * *

Evelyn's footsteps reverberate as she stalks the corridors of Skyhold assaulted awake by another nightmare. The details are already lost. She is left only with a pervasive uneasiness. The usual guilt.

There have been no expeditions. The Inquisition lacks leadership. She's the equivalent of a sellsword that can seal rifts. She  _could_  leave Skyhold on her own but if she fell? What would happen to Thedas? A mounting coldness swirls inside of her, heat builds in her eyes. She is afraid. She has always been afraid and now she's afraid that fear or no, permission or no, she won't be able to escape this life. She hasn't been able to find a means that isn't entirely selfish.  _Does it matter?_  Yes. It matters.

That dizzying panic seizes her again. She sits in the courtyard gazebo and breathes raggedly, telling herself she'll be okay, a lie to make  _this_  stop. She remembers arguing with Josephine here about her cowardice. Every drop of air is squeezed out of her lungs, her battle for air the only sound. She doesn't know how long passes. She only knows that once again, she's survived. She rises shakily and wipes the icy sweat from her forehead, swallowing thickly. She wanders like a lost ghost. Once again she finds herself in the great hall and once again her eyes are drawn to the light beneath Josephine's office door.

She presses her palm to the door, focusing on the grooves of the wood, the metal studs. She pushes. The door opens soundlessly. Evelyn can't imagine a day when Josephine would allow squeaky doors, rusty hinges, a warning, to any possible intruder. It would seem that Josephine is considerably braver than she is.

Evelyn lingers at the door for a time. It's warmer here. The fire cascades golden light over the room. Josephine is intensely focused on her work, dabbing the quill into the inkwell. How diligent she is. How committed. Evelyn wonders if she'll ever have such a sense of duty. She wishes she could watch her forever—instead, she steps forward tentatively, not wanting to alarm her. "Josephine?" Josephine lifts her head and Evelyn is surprised to see her smile tiredly. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all." She stands, and Evelyn notes once again how her movements are like water. "I am happy to see you." Really? Evelyn smiles, fast and nervous as some forest critter before moving closer. She hates how Josephine can so easily strip her of her defenses. "Imagine my surprise when Leliana told me you'd vacated your quarters. It is strange to have you so removed. I feel as if I haven't seen you in ages." She shakes her head quickly, scratching absently behind her ear. "Did she ask you to leave your room?"

No one asked her to. The conversation with Hawke left her troubled. She thought to make some gesture that she was moving away from the role of Inquisitor. Outside of Leliana and Josephine, no one appears to have noticed. Maybe it's a pointless exercise. "I left on my own."

"I do not know whether to take comfort in that. Your visit is unexpected but appreciated. It is late. Is there something I might help you with?"

Is there something Josephine might help her with? She doesn't know. In some ways, the woman has helped her considerably, in others, been needlessly punitive.  _Or maybe you're sensitive._  Her feelings don't always correlate with reality, no matter the self-righteous fire they may fill her with. "No. Nothing. I saw the light. I thought…"

Josephine nods, seemingly disappointed. "Will you be leaving soon?"

"I've already overstayed—"

"No, that isn't…" Josephine lifts her head, averts her eyes and seems to take in the room. "Forgive me. Might we walk? I could use a break from this office." Evelyn agrees and they exit, moving into the shadows of the grand hall. Their gaze falls to the throne. She's sat on the throne but has yet to judge anyone. No one significant. How is it that the role fell to her? What does she know about judging character? What fools are raised to power. The Inquisition is better off without her. "You might have heard—Mayor Gregory Dedrick has been found and brought to Skyhold."

Evelyn had heard murmurings but wasn't sure of their validity. Her conversations with members of the Inquisition have been limited to Josephine, as infrequent as those have been. She has tried her best to not think of Crestwood and its inhabitants and still the experiences needle her at night when she sleeps. That more than Corypheus and Envy. The Venatori are anywhere. They could strike at any time. She has started ingesting lyrium again without a word to anyone else. If she'd had it in her system before then maybe…  _Maker, what am I doing?_  She spends the majority of the time fatigued, only to fall into fitful sleep in the middle of the day. She doesn't want to think of the wardens. None of it makes sense. "What will become of Dedrick?"

"I am not certain. The residents of Crestwood have begun making the journey here. Family of the lost. Families of his victims. Our soldiers are invested as well. Many men and women died in Crestwood while the dead walked the land. You know how terrible it was." Josephine crosses her arms, looking uncertainly at Evelyn.

"What is it?"

"The people will look to you."

"Me?" They deserve better. Braver. The coiled anxiety starts to build inside her again, stabbing hot into her chest. "How about that walk?" They exit the great hall and go into the night where the air has gotten progressively colder. She thinks to apologize for not being accessible but isn't sure if she's overestimating any effect it might have on Josephine. "I can't help thinking of what happened in Crestwood." She stops, uncertainly, unsure if she should speak of it. Josephine slides her fingers along Evelyn's palm, squeezing her fingertips. Air floods into her lungs. "I didn't think I was going to make it out alive."

"No one slept while you were gone."

"Not even you?"

"Especially not me."

It surprises her and Evelyn isn't sure who that speaks ill of. "The whole thing was… visceral. And hazy. What I remember… What I remember I want to forget. What a lionheart I am." It's embarrassing. More embarrassing is how accustomed she is to the crippling sensation. There was a time she thought… maybe hoped that Josephine could care about her. But why would anyone care for someone who would abandon their position? "I thought we could talk more of your time as a bard. If that's all right? I was a bit lightheaded when we last spoke—I was…"

"It is a wonder you remember anything at all."

"Your words have a way of getting stuck in my head." Her voice. Her lilt. She communicates with her eyes. With touch. "Do you think people can turn things around? You were a bard. I was a templar." And if she's not careful with the lyrium, if she isn't disciplined, what will she become? One of those fallen, addicted members of the Order. Maker help her. "You've changed for the better."

"I am not so certain I have changed as much as you may imagine. It is a question I often ask myself. What if that young man—his name was Claudio—what if it had not been his face behind the mask? What if it had been a stranger? Would I have been appalled? Would I have gloated? I often think I would have remained in the Game. I would have stayed and maybe I would have become one of Leliana's agents. How many lives would I have taken? How would I have laughed at their misfortune? At my cleverness? And the DuParaquettes?" Evelyn listens to their footsteps filling the silence. "Do you know that I have not grieved them?"

Good. The last thing she wants is for Josephine to torture herself over it. "They were given an opportunity and they squandered it. I ended it before things could escalate further."

"I am grateful. It is that gratitude I feel guilty for, not their deaths. I think, 'shouldn't I grieve them'? Shouldn't we? Isn't that the decent thing to do?"

"You can only accomplish so much with 'decency'." The words bother her, despite how she believes them. She doesn't want to believe in those kinds of things. She shifts her hand, twining it with Josephine's as if afraid the words will cause her to withdraw. Josephine clasped her hand in Haven the night she nearly left. Evelyn once thought Josephine damned her. Maybe she saved her instead. Maybe it was one of the Maker's tricks. Something she hasn't been able to sort out. "That probably sounds callous to you."

"Ah, a touch. Decency has its merits. A pity people in our position rarely get to see it. I think you are being hard on the DuParaquettes."

"They were handed something and they were selfish."

"They were handed something only because I needed their cooperation."

"The point stands." They bloody nearly killed Josephine in their quest for coin and status.  _And didn't you kill them to make sure Josephine could have hers?_  It wasn't quite like that. How long did Josephine live in fear because of them? It's infuriating.

"You look very serious." Josephine studies her. "Are you thinking of them?" Evelyn says nothing. "You saved me and they are no longer a threat. Please, do not let it trouble you." Is it so easy for her to let go of anger? The anger is a welcome relief. It is better than the void that has recently filled her. "You give me too much credit."

Evelyn stops. "You think so?"

"Sometimes." Josephine lifts her head. Evelyn studies the lines of her face in the shadows and moonlight. "Quite peculiar, no? I never know how you feel about me. Sometimes…" she sounds so uncertain. As uncertain as Evelyn feels around her. Josephine exhales and looks around as if for shelter. "A gift has arrived for you. Leliana has asked that I deliver it." She looks heartbroken.

"Is it a blade to the heart?"

Her smile is bright and Evelyn is momentarily heartened to provoke it. Not a moment later she sees the glisten in her eyes. "As ambassador I have my tasks. I made a commitment to the Inquisition."

"Commitments must be honored." Evelyn shuffles awkwardly. "All right. Do you need help?"

"No. I will gather it. Will you wait? Unless— " she dismisses whatever notion was in her head. "Where do you reside these days?" Evelyn tells her. Josephine unlaces their hands but holds on to Evelyn's for another few moments before nodding to herself. "I will meet you there shortly." She's off, the tail of her dress fluttering behind her. Evelyn watches Josephine's figure escape into the night, sorry for the misery that seemingly grips her.

* * *

The room is tiny and neat. Chilly. There is no fire. A collection of cracked stones lie beneath a hole in the upper right corner. A weathered longsword rests against the bed. The room is a poor choice given the wealth of options afforded her. Josephine wonders if Evelyn is trying to punish herself.  _If not, you are more than capable of doing the job._

Evelyn remains on the bed. "You're gracious to visit. I know this isn't up to your standards." She sounds guilty about it, guilty to subject her to such conditions, even as her smile is bashful. Josephine remains at the door holding the box. If only she could visit to bring happiness, pleasure. They wait for the other to make a move. "Aren't you tired, ambassador?"

No longer can Josephine return to her with titles. Even if she carries one in a box. She is forced to call her by her given name, drawing closer to her, while Evelyn uses titles to keep her at a distance. "I was." Evelyn's presence has given her a surge of energy, even if some of that energy is frantic and nervous. "I have brought what was promised."

There isn't a desk to set the box on. The bed is too far away and too close in one. Josephine stoops, setting the box on the floor and withdrawing the crown of twisted branches. She lifts and holds it carefully. Evelyn looks at it as if it were red lyrium. "Is that what you have brought? A promise?"

Josephine flinches. Calm instead of anger. A calm before the storm? Josephine does not trust the steadiness. Perhaps she is frightened because the token she has brought is a slap in the face. It is a breach to what she promised Evelyn: support in whatever decision she made, a crack in whatever foundation she hoped to build with her. "Leliana—" How her voice quakes.

"To the Void with Leliana!" Evelyn reaches forward, fingers wrapping firmly around the crown and snatching back. Josephine takes a breath at the sharpness along her fingertips. She held the crown lightly, afraid to hold it with conviction, reverence. She has escaped unscathed. Evelyn is not so lucky. She cries out in surprise and drops it, the crown clattering onto stone. Blood seeps from her fingers, dotting the floor. She looks at her hand as if it has betrayed her, before turning that same look to Josephine. The heat goes out of her eyes. She flexes her hand. Blood, dark and purple, springs to the surface. Calmly, she goes to an aged bureau and pulls out bandaging, wrapping it around her bleeding hand. This, more than the anger, disturbs Josephine. "I don't know why I'm surprised. Do you mean anything you say?"

"Of course I do." Her face burns. Her track record with Evelyn would say otherwise.

"Do you agree with this?" she nods at the crown.

"No." That tremor again.

"But you did it anyway. Because Leliana said to. Maker, you bloody know what she's doing, don't you? You must. You're not stupid. You're  _shrewd_.  _She's_  shrewd. Does she think that she can send you here? That you're some kind of bloody weapon? That I'll stay because of—" Her voice is decidedly unsteady now and growing more agitated.

Josephine stills as Evelyn fumbles around the room, opening drawers, slamming them shut, yanking out a small coin purse, grabbing her satchel, filling it with the same three books as last time. Something else that clinks in the bag. Coin? Josephine's legs go weak. "I will not be played like this. Do you think I haven't had to put up with this rubbish my entire life? People pretending to give me a choice when there's no choice at all?" Her words are fire but her voice teeters dangerously close to that of someone on the verge of tears. "To the Void with Leliana, to the Void with you, Josephine, to the Void with the bloody wardens and Calpernia and the Venatori. Why the Void have I stayed this long?" She fumbles getting the belt around her waist with the scabbard attached. Finally she picks up the longsword and jams it into the scabbard. "No wonder nobody takes me seriously. I never keep my bloody word. It starts now. I keep my word starting now."

She storms out of the room.

Josephine settles to the floor, numb. She counts the drops of blood that paint the stone. She looks at the crown and notices the edges, colored by Evelyn's blood, a drop running one of its fanglike edges. She breathes and listens to the ear splitting silence.  _Run, run, run. Come back, come back, come back_. Her lips are dry. She licks them but she can't will any feeling into herself.

Black becomes shadows, shadows shift until they are obliterated by orange light. Evelyn returns to the room, dumping the satchel to the floor unceremoniously, unbuckling her belt. The sword clangs as it hits the floor. Evelyn sits on the bed, her bandaged hand soaked red.  _Every time you touch her, she bleeds._

"I keep trying to find the right way to leave. Since Crestwood I've been tearing my hair out trying to find a way." She rests her forehead against her balled fists. Josephine kneels before her, taking Evelyn's wrists in her hands. "This is madness. I should not be charged with the Inquisition. There's no responsibility I haven't run from."

"You have run, it seems, from everything except the Inquisition." She smooths her fingers along Evelyn's wrists, up to her knuckles. Josephine kisses them tenderly before lifting her face. "Please don't hate me for what I am about to tell you." There's fear in Evelyn's eyes, the walls quickly forming. "I meant what I said in Crestwood. But I never, ever wanted you to go away."

* * *

The drums of judgment sound.

Nobles, soldiers and citizens are stuffed into the grand hall. Mayor Gregory Dedrick kneels at the foot of the steps, wrists chained behind him. The Inquisitor sits on the throne, Inquisition regalia donned, the black thorny crown settled on her head. It has been two days since Josephine gave Evelyn the crown. Now she attends war room meetings. Now she sits on the throne, statuesque, her grey eyes frighteningly calm.

Josephine trembles. Terror? Regret? Excitement? All of it? Cassandra stands stiffly beside her. Leliana and Cullen stand to the right of the throne. The drumming comes to a stop and the murmuring of the crowd soon follows. Evelyn's eyes fall impassively on Josephine.

Josephine clears her throat, moving ahead of the crowd and coming to the foot of the steps to stand beside him. "Mayor Gregory Dedrick of Crestwood is present for betraying his own constituents. He confesses that ten years ago he flooded Old Crestwood to kill refugees and villagers touched by the blight. The mayor claims it was to spare the rest of Crestwood, but we only have his word."

The crowd erupts into muttering and shouts.  _Murderer!_   _Kill him!_ Evelyn raises a hand and they settle. Her lips part in surprise but she quickly regains herself. "What have you to say for yourself, Dedrick?"

Dedrick is thin. Heavy bags sit below his eyes. He is unnaturally pale. "There's no cure for the blight but I couldn't convince anyone to leave a sick child or husband behind."

His chains rattle and Evelyn winces. Did anyone notice, that fraction of an expression? Josephine thinks of Evelyn's wrists, bruised like fruit, the skin peeled back. "So you herded the infected into one place and flooded Old Crestwood? Were no innocents caught in the waters?

"Nearly everyone in the village had the blight, I swear it. Have mercy. I couldn't tell the survivors I'd drowned their own families to save them. I- I couldn't. Inquisitor—" he lurches forward only to be grabbed by two Inquisition guards and forced back onto his knees. Evelyn's fingers tighten on the armrests. "Have mercy. I beg you. Isn't this what you did in Haven? Weren't people lost for the greater good? It's no different."

Members of the crowd gasp. Evelyn has taken his words to heart. She lifts a pale, curled hand to her mouth, serious and contemplative, as if to hold back words. Josephine wants to shout at him. It is different. He is manipulating the situation, a clever ploy. He is old and beaten, chained and held back by the guards but Josephine feels no pity. How many innocents died for his drastic measures?

Still, perhaps there is some good to be made of him, some way to utilize his guilt to the benefit of the Inquisition. She does not know which way Evelyn will judge. She has come to realize it is impossible to predict her. "Have you come to a decision, Inquisitor?" Josephine asks, quill poised over the page, ready to note the judgment.

Evelyn shifts on the throne. "War forces terrible choices on us. I know what it is to choose between the lesser of two evils but justice demands its due. You abandoned your people. You betrayed their trust. You spit on the faith they placed on you. That is unforgivable." Her chin quivers despite her conviction. "Gregory Dedrick, I sentence you to a swift death."

Dedrick slumps. "The day has come at last. Maker forgive my sins."

Josephine looks up at Evelyn. Her eyes are as unreadable as a doll's.

* * *

The steps to the gallows ring hollow as Evelyn climbs. Thump. Thump. Thump. The executioner is there, his small ax in hand. Dedrick kneels on the platform, shivering, tears running down his face, snot trailing over his lips and down his chin. His pants are soiled. He is petrified. The crowd is alive, electric, wild with energy and good cheer. Their voices soar when they see her, their excitement unparalleled when she dismisses the executioner.

The sun is setting. Cheerful music spills out of the tavern. The breeze is startlingly refreshing. Cassandra climbs the platform and takes her arm. "Evelyn, you do not have to do this."

Evelyn shrugs her off. She can't recall the last they spoke. She doesn't look at the seeker. "I ordered it. I'll do it. I won't ask another to do what I would not."

"Fine. It is unnecessary, but I will respect your decision."

Cassandra draws away. The crowd teems with energy. Evelyn stoops beside Dedrick. He looks at her, crying. She pities him, not knowing whether she should. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was saving my people."

"Why did you run?"

"I was afraid of what the others would think. I couldn't bear to see their looks of disappointment. Was I so wrong? Was it so wrong?"

She hates Crestwood. She hates Mayor Dedrick. She hates what he reminds her of. She hates his weakness. She hates their similarities. So much hatred it's suffocating. "It was wrong enough." She lays a hand over his and recites a prayer.

Eventually he joins her, saying the words in his wispy, teary way. "Will I walk at the side of the Maker?"

She doesn't know but she nods and gets to her feet. The crowd erupts in exuberant jubilation. Is this what she is? A champion of the just? Is she merciful? Is she a tyrant? What kind of life might Dedrick have had after this revelation?  _A life._  No. justice must be done. He abandoned his people. He betrayed his people. It's only right. It's what happens to deserters. To betrayers. To those who walk away. She looks at the crowd, dazed. Their eyes gleam. Their teeth glisten. They cheer for death. They demand it. She's lightheaded.

She unsheathes the greatsword from her back, circling her hands around the hilt of the sword for the first time since leaving Crestwood. The sword feels unnaturally heavy, the soft leather digging like barbed wire into her palms. Skyhold sways. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. There is a flash of gold silk in the distance, royal purples; the dress Josephine was wearing. Is it her? Hawke is closer. A shake of her head and the Champion turns her back to the spectacle, walking into the crowd away from the scene.

Evelyn lifts the greatsword high over her head.  _Maker, forgive me. Maker, forgive us all._  She strikes. The applause is thunderous. The platform shakes. Dedrick's head falls clean and rolls off the platform. The people dive after it as if it were a game. Someone lifts it. Laughter. Cheering. The world rushes at her, withdrawing, rushes at her, withdrawing. A hand over her heart. Air. Air. Air. She needs it. She looks at them, these animals, and thinks that maybe it's all for nothing.

* * *

There's a speck of blood on her neck, just above her collarbone. Josephine's terrified Evelyn will notice it.

Evelyn has returned to her Inquisitor's quarters. She stands at the balcony, expressionlessly looking over Skyhold. The platform is visible from this location, along with the long trail of red leading off of it. Josephine knows how they have disappointed her today. Evelyn keeps her hands on the balcony until Josephine slips her arms around her waist. She half-turns, allowing Josephine to hold her but not returning the embrace.

She still wears that crown, like jagged dragon's teeth. Josephine ignores the hurt that is Evelyn's lack of response. She lifts a hand, cradling Evelyn's neck, her hand slipping lower to remove the spot of blood from her. Her touch is rougher than she intends but it does the job. A grimace from Evelyn and all that remains is a red mark from her irritated skin. That will fade. Better that than Evelyn finding the blood later and brought into a panic. "Are you all right?" Josephine asks.

"Oh." Evelyn's smile is pretty. Fractured. "I'm grand. Just grand."

Evelyn came to the war room meeting. Leliana did not waste any time.  _You have left the Inquisition in a dangerous position. Our enemies targeted you, us, and you are content with leaving us in the dark._  So Evelyn spoke to what happened in Crestwood. She spoke with such evenness that even Josephine's heart trembled. Evelyn saved her from the Venatori before. She wonders what she might have done if Evelyn had perished at their hands. "You do not have to reassure me. I would prefer if you spoke to me as if…"

"As if?"

Josephine releases her, settling her hands on the balcony much like Evelyn's. "As if I were someone worth confiding in." She smiles nervously. "Forgive me. After everything that has happened between us—I know I ask too much." Perhaps in time things will change between them. Perhaps when Josephine pays her with something other than contradictions and betrayals. "What a long day."

"Yes."

They glance furtively at one another. "Did you ever imagine your life would be like this? What did you want when you were a little girl?"

"A mother." She grins, as if to wipe away the maudlin response. Silence follows. Eventually she speaks again. "I thought things might be better if she lived. No one ever said it but I know my family resented me for it. Father was cold and I never got close to my brothers the way I wanted. There was always something there. She was there. Like a shadow." Her gaze is flat. Josephine touches a hand to her back. Evelyn looks at her uncertainly. "When I was old enough to realize I would have no life outside of the templars, I thought I would dedicate myself to becoming the most talented swordswoman about. I set my aspirations on Knight-Commander. How stupid." She smiles. "Do you know what happened the first time I drew blood? I nearly fainted. The recruits laughed at me. Everything was spinning but I laughed with them. I didn't know what else to do."

"I would wager they would not be so bold as to laugh in the face of the Herald of Andraste."

"Maybe. But at the time I was mortified. Templars shunned me. I ended up getting along with the mages instead. That's a mistake. You're never meant to get close. They say you won't be able to fulfill your duty if you do and they're right." She sighs, frustrated. "What did you want?"

"I had so many fancies it's impossible to remember them all. I wanted to go to university, I wanted to take over the Montilyet fleets; I wanted adventure and soirees, a husband, children, a family." Evelyn flinches. "Did you ever have such aspirations?"

"No. Not the last bit, anyway." A beat. "I did want to take over your fleets."

At least she's attempting to keep things light. "Is that a euphemism, my lady?"

Finally she smiles. "Some part of me has known I should want those things. I've wanted to want them. Normal things. But I haven't. There's more I could have done for the Trevelyan name. I have a nasty habit of letting my family down. I take what's most important to them and I stomp on it. You've probably gone to Leliana. You probably know all about it."

She frowns. "I haven't. Whatever secrets, stories you hold—I would hear them from you. I will not deny my curiosity. I'm afraid you have me quite fascinated."

Evelyn laughs shortly. "How long will that last?" Much longer than Josephine ever anticipated. At last the Herald faces her. "Maybe until you get to know me. I have so many faults I'm dangerous to be around." Another joke, Josephine suspects, though Evelyn doesn't look at her this time. "So here I am. The Herald of Andraste." She smiles.  _What a joke_ it says.

"You speak to your faults but I am not convinced. I have seen the goodness you possess where you would claim there is none. And for all your cynicism, for all the ways I have let you down, you still confide in me."

"No one ever said I was smart."

Josephine doubts anyone has said the opposite. Evelyn is remarkably well-read. There hasn't been a war room meeting where she has been at a loss over a region, a contact, the necessary protocol, the crucial connections. "I see how you torment yourself. Those without conscience rarely do." There were many in the Game who destroyed lives and laughed, who slept soundly. For a time, she was one of them. How arrogant she was. She walks away from the balcony, hands laced behind her back, looking around the room, pleased that Evelyn is back in her quarters, pleased to have her close to her office again. If she had not been in this room the night the assassin came, she would have been killed by the House of Repose. "I have been thinking of every moment, significant and insignificant that was necessary to bring you here, to bring me here— to this place where we might meet, where we might..." her heart beats a little faster. "What are the chances? It is serendipitous, wouldn't you say?"

"I hadn't thought about it." Oh. Evelyn comes closer. Josephine thinks she'll stop in front of her but she moves past to the bottle of wine. An Antivan one. She pours them each a glass, taking a long drink of her own before bringing the other to Josephine.

"Do you not think about us?" She grips the glass so her fingers don't shake.

"No." Josephine bows her head, the words striking sharp as a knife. "I think about you. I think of how you can take control of any room you're in. I think of how you're everything my family would have wanted for a daughter. And  _now_  I think of how you've always wanted a husband and children. I think of how you wrote to Blackwall. And all of that just makes me feel…" Josephine freezes. Evelyn finishes the rest of her wine. She sets the glass down. Josephine expects her to refill it but Evelyn only contemplates the bottle before walking away. "Have you ever been hungry?"

"Have I…? Pardon?"

"I don't know how to put it. I don't have words like you do. But hunger's something everyone can understand. Some more than others. Sera gets it." Sera? Josephine swallows her irritation. How can that girl understand the Inquisitor better than she? It isn't fair. "Ever since I've been old enough to…" She stalls. "What's happening here, between the two of us? It's going to be more of the same. I understand that. I'm always going to be left hungry. Unsatisfied. I'm going to want more but there won't be more."

"I don't understand—"

"Josephine—I know we can never have anything real." Melancholy dots her every word. "I know that," she defends. "Because of our titles. Because of everything that comes with nobility. Because of others. I'm not sure I know what 'real' is. Every time I've been close—" She exhales, regains herself. "I know I don't fit into your long term plans. But I care about you. I wish I didn't. It makes me feel mad sometimes. Which is probably wrong. If it were real… it wouldn't feel so… painful, would it? It wouldn't kill me to see you." She looks at her less and less. "If that's real—maybe I don't want it."

Josephine sets the wine aside. "You alone do not get to decide what is real and what isn't." It isn't as if she knows. What she knows is illusion, documentation, physical contact, but these intangible things, these matters of the heart are as mysterious and unknown to her as the Veil. "And you alone, especially, do not get to map out my future plans and what your place in them is." She takes Evelyn's face in her hands. "Do you know how it hurts to breathe when you are near and I cannot touch you? When you are hurt and I cannot find the way to bring you comfort? Do you know what it feels like to be able to reassure everyone but you?" Evelyn exhales shakily. "What is between us—perhaps it will not be anything like what others have. Perhaps it will be better. Perhaps it will be stronger. We will have to fight for it. And I have no doubt that I will disappoint you. But whatever wrong, whatever disappointment I bring, I will make it up to you tenfold. I give you my word."

"Your word?"

How she doubts it. Josephine doesn't blame her, despite how her eyes sting. She mentally notes the errors in judgment, their conversations, micro transactions that have made her word questionable to the one person she wants to believe it. "That is all I have. It is everything to me. If that is not enough…" Josephine is ready to turn but Evelyn takes her wrist. "If you do not release me, I will be forced to think you want me close." Evelyn doesn't let go. "Let us forget our titles. Let us forget decorum."

"You say that as if you weren't addicted. Are you capable?"

She lifts, pressing her cheek to Evelyn's, turning her face to breathe in her ear. "Here, with you, yes."

"For how long?"

"As long as is necessary. So long as you allow it." In the beginning physical intimacy is all they were allowed. Now they've veered wildly off course, each stray touch seemingly gained only after a crucible. It is not how she wishes for things to be. She would prefer for their contact to become so natural, they need not attach any thought to it. It would be a change from all their previous contact, strategized like a chess match. Evelyn looks at her so long that Josephine doubts the woman ever wanted her to begin with.

"All right."

"All right?"

"Yes."

"Yes...?"

Evelyn dips enough for their mouths to come together. It is inelegant and nervous but Josephine sears from the touch. It has been long since Evelyn initiated contact. Only now does Josephine realize how she craves it, how she felt lesser for not having it. The silly Ostwick noble has her wrapped around her little finger. The indignity. How in the world did it happen? When did it happen? How has she allowed it? It's supposed to be the other way around. Josephine's lips part eagerly. She sighs softly, hot and lightheaded.

Evelyn's fingers are at the back of her dress, soon she feels them gliding along her flesh, drawing the material down. Josephine breaks the kiss, short on air. The dress has fallen to her waist, Evelyn's fingers work so the rest follows, dropping in silken puddle at her feet. The corset remains and Evelyn moves around her, breath along her neck, kisses along her shoulders as she undoes the laces, carefully, hurriedly in one. It does not seem quickly enough. Evelyn drops it off to the side, cool air rushing Josephine's skin.

Josephine freezes when she moves around. The Inquisitor stands before her, fully dressed, drinking her in.

Her cheeks are flushed, her lips lightly parted. Josephine's legs shake but she relishes provoking such a reaction, rendering her speechless. Evelyn reaches out, touches her as if for the first time. Her breathing is controlled, short and Josephine's is as short and not so controlled as Evelyn's hands, warm, cup her, thumb careful and stroking. Her hands slip lower, finding that scar where the assassin's blade cut. Her touch lingers there, eyes narrowed. "When did this happen?"

"The night you saved me."

Evelyn stoops and presses her lips there, hands settled at her sides, keeping her steady. Josephine closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation, wanting more of it, needing to be consumed by it. She brings a hand to touch her hair and finds the crown instead, sharp as razors. A small gasp and she opens her eyes. A bloom of blood on her fingertip. She takes the crown and throws it.

It clangs loudly. They both stare at it, the moment temporarily broken, watching as it clatters down the stairs. It stops. Evelyn brings the bleeding finger to her lips. Josephine's mouth dries at the gentle sensation. When Evelyn releases her, Josephine sees a touch of crimson along her pale, pink lips. She wipes it away gingerly, kissing her. "No titles." Josephine repeats. "No decorum." She grabs Evelyn's robes and draws her close. "Come here."


	14. Seeing Red

A whisper of a kiss draws her from the nightmare. Evelyn's eyes open, heart pattering furiously beneath Josephine's fingertips. Her eyes search, before they adjust and see her.  _It's all right._  Josephine brushes her fingers along her forehead. Evelyn's skin is cold, her breath uneven. She swallows.  _Was it a nightmare?_

A half nod but no words. Frightened by the silence, Josephine kisses her, hungry for language, communication, eager to comfort in whatever way she can. A trembling response. Here in the darkness, beneath the sheets, every touch is only half there.

Josephine breathes her name and feels exposed. They are naked without titles, left to fumble with honesty, one another, the way they might struggle with a difficult clasp. Evelyn sits up, locking her arms around her shoulders. Josephine freezes, closes her eyes, unsure. Evelyn stiffens as immediately, despite having initiated the contact.  _Sorry._  Her repentance is so keen Josephine doesn't know whether to be insulted. Why sorry? Why unsure? Josephine holds her.  _No,_  she says but she doesn't know what to.

They part to be close again, Evelyn sweeping Josephine's loose hair from her shoulders, kisses like prayers breathed against her skin. Their mouths join. This affection is a fever. Josephine is hot and lightheaded. She tries to find words for this soaring. This is outside her experience. She shifts, a knee between Evelyn's legs, pressing her down onto her back. Evelyn doesn't resist. Josephine is grateful.

Her hands lift, cradling Josephine's face, thumbs easing along her earlobes.  _Do this often, do you?_ Josephine smiles at the question, at the curiosity in Evelyn's eyes.  _Have you taken many women to bed?_

_Will I have to contend with a jealous lover?_  She takes Evelyn's wrist and kisses it, reflecting on her question. She has not had many. She has had none, in fact. She has had kisses, touches, but little more. Evelyn is the first. Josephine has always been attracted to men and women. Her absence of experience with women never negated the fact or made her question it, even if openly revealing such things would bring questions from all sides. Her discretion has kept her social status relatively intact but she feels no shame. So what if they know? Her family might feel differently. She puts them out of her head. The Herald has had a nightmare. It is her task to quell that fear.

Evelyn has considerable more experience than she. Josephine wonders if she'll leave Evelyn unsatisfied. And yet, she is a woman. She is not completely ignorant on these matters. She knows what she likes but has yet to discover what Evelyn might. It is a fascinating bit of research that must be attended to. Josephine pays her attention, gauging her reaction, listening to her breath, noting when her body rises to meet her contact. In time, she'd like to hear Evelyn vocalize her desires. How it would please her, to please her.

It is a puzzle. How does she do it? How does she unravel her…? A touch here? A nip there?

Josephine progresses steadily, kissing Evelyn until language is abandoned. Evelyn's eyes dart around the room. Josephine is seized with panic. Is she bored?  _Should I stop?_  Evelyn shakes her head. More kisses and Josephine slides her fingers into her. She marvels at how she once thought this woman was ice and stone. She is warm, soft, slick, clenched around her. Evelyn takes a breath as if it is the first she has known. Josephine watches her eyes, her parted lips. She loves her mouth. Evelyn's fingers clamp along Josephine's shoulders.

_I've never done this before._

Josephine furrows her eyebrows, a quizzical smile.  _And now you are teasing me._  She palms Evelyn's face, thumb along her lip, hand stroking her below, pulling soft sounds out of her.  _Neither have I._  She teases in return. That look in her eyes. Why aren't their candles? How she would love to read her clearly. She withdraws her fingers and guides them inside again, deeper, another finger toying close.  _More?_  No. Not more. Evelyn's face and breath radiate heat. Josephine wonders who has pinned who. Her fingers are not enough to get inside her. They will not stay. How does she stay locked within? Are such things normal desires? This is not enough. Will anything ever be enough?

* * *

Josephine's eyes flutter open.

Evelyn stands at the double doors to the balcony, looking out. She is touched by the wan morning light, casting a halo around her. Josephine studies her back: firm, strong, surprisingly graceful. Scars are etched into her skin like lines on a map. Rivers. Stars. She slips the shift over her head, pulling it down, turns and looks at her. What, Josephine wonders, does she see?

"Did I wake you?" Evelyn asks.

Josephine shakes her head. Evelyn moves around the room, grabbing her armor, slipping it on. Josephine wraps a blanket around herself and goes to her. Today Evelyn begins the journey to Adamant. Josephine touches the cold of the armor, startled at how different it is from the heat of her skin. She takes over where Evelyn has started, fingers falling to the belts of the armor, buckling the bracers into place. She has never helped anyone with their armor but feels helpless standing, watching. It is a very real possibility that one day Evelyn will not return to Skyhold. If only she possessed the necessary magic to keep her safe. Josephine's tongue is still even when she wishes to tell her the foolish thoughts. She feels her stare and begins work on the other arm. "Did you sleep?"

"No."

So much for her grand scheme to distract her, to exhaust her into sleep. Perhaps the thought was naïve. Perhaps the thought was arrogant. Can touch and affection combat the demons of the mind? The blanket begins to slip from Josephine's shoulder. Evelyn tugs it back into place. "I am sorry to hear it." The leather of the arm bracers is worn and cracked. "I was thinking of getting a schematic from one of the finest armorers in Orlais. We could give it to Harritt and provide you with new armor. Something fitting. This is falling apart." This is the armor that was stolen in Crestwood. How can she wear it when it was so easily taken? She yanks the belt back, buckling it too tightly.

Evelyn delicately removes Josephine's fingers and loosens the bracer, moving her arm experimentally. "It's kept me alive so far."

"You deserve better." She glances up. Evelyn is smiling. "Is the suggestion so ridiculous?"

"It's just that… I didn't take you to be an expert on armor. I suspect you only want me in something that won't be an embarrassment should the Inquisition decide to have a painting commissioned."

She is, in fact, in the midst of tracking down the right painter for the job. "Is that so wrong?" She cinches the belt before beginning on the buckles of the chest piece. "I want you safe." Some of the amusement fades even if Evelyn's smile remains. Josephine pierces the leather with the metal tab of the buckle. She swallows but doesn't have the strength to clear her throat. "Is this something you have your women do before going to battle?"

"My women?"

"You know what I mean." She cannot even look at her.

"Tell me." Josephine begins on the other belt. Her face burns. Her throat dry. Evelyn's fingers cradle her face. Eventually Josephine looks at her. Why didn't she sleep? "No one has ever done this for me."

Air sweeps into Josephine's lungs. She pulls away and gathers her clothing from the floor, dressing in what she wore the night prior. She must desert this room before Skyhold awakens. There is no shame to having Evelyn Trevelyan as a lover but she cannot appear to be biased when presenting her to Thedas, when preaching of her deeds to the world.

Evelyn snaps on the rest of her armor. She laces the back of Josephine's dress, and watches her comb her hair out before setting it back into place with pins. They walk down the stairs together and Josephine thinks they make a fine pair, descending the steps like royalty. Evelyn stoops at the base of the stairs, picking up the sharp and jagged crown that was thrown the previous night. A small hiss. Two small drops on her palm like the bite of a viper. Evelyn frowns deeply, bringing her lips to where the blood has sprung. "I never learn, do I?" She opens the door, nodding her head to urge her forward. "Ambassador."

* * *

His knocking has gone unanswered. Cullen waits by the door to Josephine's study before clearing his throat.

Josephine ignores him, dips her quill in the inkwell once, then again before pausing, her eyes dreamy. Cullen scrutinizes her. She writes a word and another before setting the quill aside, her arms folded on the desk. What is she doing? She picks up the quill, writing, smiling. She begins to hum.

All right. That is enough. He marches to her and plants his hands on the desk. She writes another few words before her humming becomes a jerky, surprised scream. She knocks the inkwell to the side, a dot of ink landing on the white dress she wears. Maker help him. He contemplates telling her but decides against having the golden letter opener buried in his heart.

"Cullen! You should not startle a woman in the midst of work!" She prattles off a string of Antivan words. Whatever she's saying, it sounds pleasing to the ear. Maker, no matter her ire, the woman is incapable of not being charming. "I will have to write these letters over again and my desk… We must send for an attendant to clean this at once, lest it stain. Quickly. Quickly!"

He's fetched the elven attendant before he thinks to question it. She goes through her pile of letters, inspecting each one carefully. The ones ruined by ink to the left, those without stain to the right. He cannot stop staring at the dot of ink on her dress. It has grown since he last saw it. He approaches, only daring to speak once the elf has gone and Josephine resumed her seat. She looks up at him, a small crease he's never seen along her eyebrow. "Oh. You remain. How may I assist you?" She looks at the desk, fingers traveling carefully over the wood, searching for other stains.

"If you must know, you have an extensive list of visiting nobles and dignitaries. You're late." She looks at him as if not understanding what language he speaks. He bristles. "I've been trying to keep Arl Teagan and that Isolde entertained. I've had festering wounds that were less painful."

"What?" Her eyes go wide and she's on her feet again, the fear in her eyes similar to the night Haven was attacked. "Maker. Why did Leliana not see to them?"

She picks up the hem of her dress and moves briskly. He scrambles to catch up. "Believe me, I tried to persuade her. She had some choice words for Isolde, none fit for repeating in polite company." Josephine doesn't slow. He spots another stain of ink along the sleeve of her dress. Maker, give him strength. "This isn't like you." She waits for two servants to open the door before rushing through. Cullen follows. "Your head's been in the clouds." Could it be the Inquisitor?

"Who else is here? I cannot believe I have allowed this to happen."

He grunts. "They could stand some humility." Sanctimonious and condescending, the whole lot of them. He's never seen Josephine so pale.

"Who knows what they're saying. This is no welcome. Ay. What an impression I am making. Are they alone now?"

"I believe Sera was about when I went to retrieve you."

Josephine stops abruptly. _"What?"_ Cullen stills, willing his bowels to do the same. "Do you mean to tell me that you let that girl—" she lifts a hand and spots the ink on her sleeve. She looks down and swiftly spots the others.

He smiles nervously, scratching his face. "I'll… attend to them while you ready yourself." Her gaze follows him. Maker. He thought Meredith's eyes were cold.

* * *

Josephine falls back onto the bed exhausted. She can't quite believe the day has come to an end and half expects to be dragged from the bedroom to attend to more dignitaries. Still, despite her exhaustion she is flush with energy.

Skyhold is not court. It still has some way to go before it is up to snuff. However, to be among the nobility again, negotiating, engaging in discourse… It is most exciting. She wonders what Evelyn would make of her day. Would she roll her eyes? Would she be terribly bored? Would she be proud?

Ah, she thinks too much of her. And yet, she is not troubled. Evelyn has that smile doesn't she? Bashful and nervous around her, so unlike the front she dons for the rest of the world. Such little displays. Are they hers alone? Or does Cassandra also get to experience them?

Josephine thinks on their parting. It seemed important to not be stingy with her words, to not be so serious.  _Please be safe._ She tried to make light of it.  _I do not wish to write letters of your untimely demise._

_Then I release you from any such responsibility._

As if it were so easy. Evelyn gave Josephine a chaste peck on her cheek, having missed the point entirely. What if something happens? Something else? How battered will be battered enough to walk away from this? Isn't there anyone else who can do it? What is that anchor? What had Evelyn wanted to say the night she turned her away?

_Perhaps you'll never know. She does not trust you._  Then why lie with her? Is it only physical attraction that she feels? Would she give her body to someone she cares little for? Josephine knows the answer. It might not have troubled her before. Josephine vows to to earn her trust. Without trust, what good are they? It should not weigh so heavily on her mind. The Inquisition comes first _._  Is it wrong to not want duty to come between them?

She lies in bed and reads through one of Yvette's letters. She continues to change tutors as if they were undergarments.  _And_  she has managed to net herself an invitation to the soiree at the Winter Palace.  _Perhaps Yvette should be ambassador._  Nonsense. She will get it done. She will not be outdone by her younger sister. And  _yet_ , there is something between the lines of what Yvette writes. Yvette is many things but subtle is not one. Something is afoot and she is in the dark. Why has her mother not communicated whatever it is? Unless she does not know… but no, if Yvette knows, surely their mother knows… What could it be?

After reading through the usual questioning around the Inquisitor, Josephine opens the drawer on her nightstand, removing several sheets of paper, a carefully sealed inkwell and a quill. She lights another candle on the nightstand and uses the small lap desk that was crafted for these very late night sessions.

_Dearest Yvette,_

_I thank you for taking time from your very busy social life to write to your beloved older sister. I was half-afraid you'd eloped with one of your tutors. That was not and is not a suggestion. Things with the Inquisition are fine, thank you for asking,_ she smiles wryly,  _though they have not been easy. I am confident that these tribulations are only momentary trials to show Thedas the commitment and integrity of our cause._

_I am beginning to wonder if I should forward your letters directly to the Inquisitor herself. What questions you have. And **no,** she is not currently looking for a romantic entanglement. Is this a personal interest I am sensing…? The Inquisitor has far more pressing concerns than whom she takes to bed. When did you begin asking such daring questions?_

_In any case, perhaps you will soon meet her._ At the Winter Palace if nothing more. She is confident they can secure an invitation.  _If you do, I beg you to not say anything embarrassing. Please do not bring up any of your childhood stories, which are quite exaggerated._ She always makes her sound like a lunatic when she goes on about her doll collection. What squabbles they got into; it was always Josephine's responsibility to sort out their dilemmas. She remembers trying to explain how she'd resolved conflicts only to have her audience grow bored and leave her.  _Do not, for the love of all that is holy, ask how she got that scar on her face._ Even if Josephine has been unable to stop thinking of it herself. It is easy to recall how slippery and hot her hands were with blood when she pieced Evelyn back together. How did she manage it? What force steadied her hands? Prompted her to hum? If only she could offer it a small prayer of thanks.  _And if Evelyn appears gruff, do not take it to heart. She is quite sweet, I assure you._

_I miss you more than you know. And the delicious sweets from the little market on the corner. Did the Otranto's change the name again? Bring some crepes to the Winter Palace when you go, won't you? I am dying for them. As always, give my love to mother and father and our silly brothers. And do try to behave yourself. You know how mother fusses. And then I'm the one who has to hear about it._

_xoxo- Josie_

* * *

Josephine wakes before sunrise. She bathes and readies herself for the day that will be filled with meetings, meals and negotiations with the nobility. She refreshes all pertinent details before emerging into the political battleground that Skyhold is becoming. Today on the agenda: more meetings with Arl Eamon and Isolde, a visit from Viscount Bran and his mistress Serendipity and another half dozen things. So far their conversation has been surprisingly unproductive. She wagers they are working up to their true intentions and is anxious and excited for negotiations to commence.

A private dining hall has been established for such notable visitors, away from the clamor of the grand dining hall where all soldiers meet. The idea of setting up Isolde in the mess appeals for many reasons; not hearing her constantly complain, being chief amongst them. And yet, Josephine knows well that unsavory task is one of the most important in her position. She will coddle her until she is no longer needed.

She makes her way to the private dining room. Considerable coin has been spent to make it inviting. She wonders if one day she and Evelyn will share a meal here. Or perhaps in one of their quarters. That might be better. She has instructed the cooks and servants to bring the finest spreads to the tables and—

She stops in her tracks. The door is ajar. She hones in on it and hurries. Perhaps it is only the servants readying—

No. It's  _her_. Sera yanks a grape free. Another two tumble back into the bowl and she digs through it before throwing back the first grape and pulling a vine loose. She rips two grapes free, popping them into her mouth before continuing to move around the table, picking up a small wheel of cheese and bending it to and fro until a chunk breaks off.

Josephine hasn't moved so fast in her life. She takes the wheel of cheese from her, wincing as her fingers sink into it. Lovely. She'll have to throw it away and get a fresh one. As if it weren't difficult enough to bring these items to Skyhold.

"You could have asked," Sera says. "I would have shared.  _That_ , anyway. Cheese." She picks up a different wedge. Josephine goes cold and then hot until she can't see. Her fingers bury deeper into the wheel. She must regain a hold of her senses. She pulls her fingers free and focuses on Sera, who merrily resumes her tour around the table. "Fancy room, this. Is this where you bring the coin purses? Look at all this  _food_!" She grins, picking up a pitcher of milk and taking a delicate drink from the side. "Can't remember the last time I had a sip."

"Stop this at once." Josephine demands. She's half tempted to throw the cheese at her but isn't sure the woman wouldn't thank her and eat it instead. "By what stretch of the imagination do you think that this food has been laid out for  _you_ , Sera? What are the guests supposed to eat while you move through here like a tempest?"

"A temptress? Me?" She grins. "You're cute enough, yeah. Thought you were with the shiny hand Herald."

The name is ridiculous. "That is not—" she takes a breath. Calm. Calm. She does not know how she can tolerate the absurd demands of the nobility and yet this girl manages to get so quickly under her skin. Sera picks up a scone and has two big bites, making a sound of content. She brings a hand to her stomach, hopping happily in a circle, scarfing the rest of it down before continuing her pillaging. Maker, the girl is so slim—where does she fit it all?

"You're not with her?" Sera arches an eyebrow. "Makes sense. She really fancies Cassandra. Don't blame her. She's fit, right fit, for sure. Better that. You really broke Beardie's heart, you know."

Josephine's face heats. So Cassandra remains an object of admiration for Evelyn. She bites her tongue, momentarily flustered. Further, she's troubled. Has Blackwall spoken to Sera about things? She will not enter discourse. "What I meant is that you've come here like a storm. Arl Eamon and Isolde are to dine here, along with Viscount Bran." Sera looks at her waiting for her point. "We will not make a good impression like this."

"Stopping Coryphyshit and all the other baddies isn't a good enough impression? Bugger them, all we want is their coin, right? Turn on your charm. You're good at that—maybe not for one of 'my kind'," she the last she says in comical soberness, "but for others. All we needed to win nobles was wheels of cheese, why would we need you? Just… put a wheel of cheese in your office and send them there. Speaking of, I once found a man crushed to death beneath a wheel of cheese! Massive! This far wide." She spreads her arms out. "Nothing left but bones. It was brilliant."

Charming. Josephine wishes Evelyn had taken Sera instead. She'd be out of her hair and causing less trouble. Instead she took Blackwall… at her urging.  _If there are wardens who might be swayed to our cause… why not enlist them?_  It was one of the increasingly rare moments that Evelyn wore her feelings on her sleeve.  _I don't trust the wardens. Say what you want about Blackwall. I don't trust **him**  either._ Josephine urged her to reconsider. Josephine brings Sera the cheese she previously plucked from her hands.  _Take it and go._  Sera waves away the offer.

The door to the dining room opens further and Josephine's heart plummets. She has made a terrible impression and now, she cannot imagine how she will recover the esteem of these visiting noble houses. She breathes despite how her heart had stopped. Leliana, moving like the shadows. "There you are. Is this where you and Sera have taken to hiding? Clever. Nobody ever comes here."

What? What in blazes— Josephine can't decide between being irritated and being flustered. Sera? No.  _No._   ** _No_** _. **No.**_ There's a twinkle in Leliana's eye. However happy Josephine is to see it, she wishes it would not come so often at her expense.

"All this food just lying here, going to waste," Sera remarks.

"A shame," Leliana agrees. Josephine considers killing her. "That key you were looking for," Leliana tells Sera. "I've found it." She produces it as if from thin air, holding it up to Sera who looks between it and Leliana apprehensively, back to the food. "Why not take a plate," she nods to the table, "and then you can begin." Sera doesn't have to be told twice. She loads up a plate with grapes, cheese, a whole stick of salami and several rolls of bread. She swipes at the key but Leliana lifts it out of reach. "Not when Arl Eamon is near, yes? And you'll write me a report on her reaction?"

"I knew I liked you, Shadows of Birds." She takes the key carefully and slips away without another word.

Josephine moves around the table straightening the bowls and plates. "You've encouraged her," she complains.

"You're welcome."

"And exactly whose key have you provided? Oh, Leliana, if it is Isolde—I swear, I have had it up to here with that woman."

"So have I. Ten years ago. Honestly, the way she goes on about Teagan is embarrassing. Why does he lead her on?"

"I am not speaking of Isolde."

"Sera?" she laughs. "What's the problem? She's easy to handle." Josephine wipes crumbs from the edge of the table and collects them in a cloth napkin. She'll have to do the table over entirely. It could take another half hour, at the very least to set things right. What if she had not come early? Would Sera have inhaled everything and left a disaster? She begins to collect the half eaten items on several plates. They clang in protest. "You're upset."

"Sometimes I wonder if I am the only one who takes the position of ambassador seriously. You and Evelyn allow that girl to run around doing what she pleases. I think you find her charming." She does not have the dignity that the Dalish or Solas carry themselves with. She is like… a drunken, embarrassing family member.

"Are you afraid of competition?" Leliana smiles soft, as if to combat the sharp look from Josephine. "You know I think the world of you so please don't take this the wrong way: you do  _not_  know how to talk to everybody. Especially those, Josie dear, you feel are beneath you." Josephine's cheeks heat. That is not true. "A little humility could go a long way." Josephine goes to the door with the plates, needing motion to save her. "Where are you taking that? A snack for later?"

"She's put her hands all over everything. It should be thrown out."

"When there are starving people making their way to us by the day?" Leliana follows her. Meets her eyes. Josephine blinks them rapidly, trying to rid herself of the burning. Leliana takes the plate of food from her. "Let me handle it." Josephine's fingers shake. Once again she cannot find what to focus on. What she's heard others say about her behind her back… are they right? "I'm sorry I teased you." She kisses her cheek. "It's all right. Without you here, we are done for."

"I'm no Inquisitor," her voice is unsteady.

"Aren't you? Her reputation: your words. Are our positions so different? We control our opponents, and the reputation of the Inquisition. Only our tactics differ."

Josephine isn't sure she agrees. She once aspired to be everything Leliana is. But they are not the same. Leliana has courage she lacks. Ice instead of fire. Ice. Fire. Are they not both dangerous? Yet she cannot control one elf. "I am happy to assist how I can."

"You work tirelessly. It is noted. Even by Cullen," she smiles. Cullen works as hard as either of them and behaves as if he's allergic to joy. "He's so grumpy, isn't he? It's a good thing he's pretty. He has gone to Adamant with the majority of the Inquisition's soldiers. It's just the two of us running Skyhold now. How fun, just us girls, hm?"

"You have a way of making  _anything_  fun." And getting into trouble. "Will Cullen arrive ahead of Evelyn?"

"They're taking a more direct route while the Inquisitor and Cassandra scout the region for any pockets of Venatori who might think of interfering with the equipment." Her eyes are foggy. "Hopefully the Inquisitor won't freeze."

Freeze? Why? Her heart palpitates. "You do not think they will succeed?"

Her eyes clear. "It'll work. Don't concern yourself. You still have Arl Teagan to attend to and a raven arrived hours ago. King Alistair and Queen Anora are en route." The King and Queen of Ferelden? Josephine swallows, a dozen things they might want to negotiate on running through her mind. "The Herald has her battles. We have ours. Be ready."

* * *

The elven servants bring in the wine bottles and goblets into the study. Josephine doesn't miss Solas' look. She smiles at him but he turns his nose up and walks in the opposite direction. She keeps the smile plastered to her face. She will speak to him later. He is a guest of the Inquisition and afforded all the courtesy she grants visitors but he can wait.

She enters her study. King Alistair and Queen Anora are seated, accompanied by Arl Teagan Guerin and Viscount Bran. The party accepts the wine with murmurs of thanks. Only Bran's companion, Serendipity, raises an eyebrow. Bran grips her hand more tightly. The servants trickle out of the room wordlessly.

The wine is tailored to each guest. For Alistair, a Grey Warden stout, Anora and Teagan, one of Ferelden's finest wines, predating the fifth Blight. Isolde gets Orlesian wine while Serendipity and the Viscount enjoy ale from the Free Marches. The study has been rearranged, Fereldan tapestry hanging from the walls, along with a painting depicting the victory of the Grey Wardens over the Fifth Blight.

Josephine nods at the group. "What a pleasure to have such esteemed company gathered here. The Inquisition is humbled by your visit. I trust the accommodations have met your expectations."

Bran sniffs. "They've done suitably."

Ah, yes, and so he says in that tone and so he says  _now_  in front of the King and Queen of Ferelden. He is insignificant in the grand of scheme of things but not entirely without status. She cannot afford to ignore him. "Suitable is not sufficient, Viscount. I will not be satisfied until you feel you've received the welcome you're due." If that cow Isolde is satisfied, how is Bran not? She thinks he's looking for something to complain about. He must have Orlesian blood. "If there is anything I can do, please notify any of the servants or myself and I will take care of it personally."

That appears to satisfy him. Isolde glares at the room. She sits so close to Teagan that she's practically in his lap. Alistair and Anora, on the other hand, could have another person squeeze in between them. What attractive nobility this country has. Alistair is well on his second pastry, she has chosen well with the desserts. Do the wardens' hunger always remain so legendary? She's heard stories though Blackwall does not appear to eat so gluttonously. Alistair licks his fingers, getting the butter and sugar and Josephine cannot say she blames him. Most Fereldan food tastes like boiled leather. The country is allergic to spices. Anora shoots him a murderous look.

"Right," Alistair considers wiping his hand on his pant leg but curls his fingers instead. "What an operation you have here."

"And how quickly established," Anora says. Her eyes are not piercing. Her eyes are not anything. Her beauty is statuesque. You can only hazard at what she's thinking. "What a remarkable feat."

"Quite out of the way," Alistair looks around and Josephine doesn't know what for. "Yet many have made the journey. I assume it was more treacherous in the beginning. I've noticed your men and women establishing passable routes. Your numbers are impressive."

"Skyhold is looking more and more a kingdom by the day," Anora remarks.

Oh. "Ah, you flatter us, your majesty. It is true that the Inquisition's numbers have grown from the small, desperate operation we were. Men and women, too far from your reach, do come to us, seeking sanctuary. Many have lost loved ones to this chaos. They are lost and they come here, seeking purpose. We are but a small, humble collection of people in your kingdom. I am certain you saw your people gathered at the gates in welcome?" She hopes so for she arranged it and spread the word that the King and Queen would be arriving.

"There are many Orlesians here as well, aren't there, Teagan?"

Isolde. Ah. Maybe she should have let Leliana take care of her. "Some, yes," Josephine says, "who do not feel Orlais is giving them adequate protection."

"So you shelter Orlesians?" Alistair asks. A tired sigh. "Why is it always Orlais? It seems as if we're always on the brink of war with them."

"But wars, like Blights, bring people together. We have not heard word of Orlais trying to take advantage of this situation." Not in any way that is a credible challenge.

"Tell me," Teagan says, "how do you hear of such things?" His tone is curious, not combative. He seems to always be steady and polite.

"You're joking, aren't you, uncle?" Alistair cocks a grin. "You remember Leliana, don't you? She works for the Inquisition. Once a bard, always a bard. And after being the Left Hand of the Divine, I imagine she's picked up a few tricks."

"Leliana," Isolde frowns, "that Orlesian woman by the windmill."

Yes, she should have let Leliana handle her. Teagan pats Isolde's arm.

"You allow an Orlesian woman to be your spymaster?" Anora picks up her glass of wine, breathes in the scent. For a moment Josephine doesn't think she'll drink. A second later she does. "A bit bold."

"While the Inquisition does pride itself on its boldness, we are not foolhardy. Leliana  _was_  born and raised in Orlais but her mother is Fereldan and she considers herself such. I do not think her commitment to Ferelden can be questioned. Did she not aid you at the Landsmeet, your majesty? She has spoken fondly to me of the event, happy for her part in assisting the rightful rulers of Ferelden." She has done no such thing but Leliana was happier then—or made an effort to pretend she was. She told stories. Not anymore. "If you have questions, or doubts, I am happy to bring Leliana here so that you may ask them personally. It will please her greatly to see King Alistair again and have an audience with her queen."

"Careful," Alistair warns, "she might critique your dress or shoes. For hours on end. Leliana loves her fashion." He chuckles.

Josephine laughs with him. Yes. Quite. Let them underestimate the Inquisition's spymaster. Let them think she poses no risk. "I admit, that if Leliana shares anything with the Orlesians it's her affinity for the latest fashions. Orlesians are impractical that way. Amongst others."

"A meeting won't be necessary," Anora says though she does so begrudgingly. "I  _am_  curious, is the Inquisitor presently in Skyhold?"

"Ah, no."

"What about the commander of your troops. What's his name," Alistair searches, eyes squinted, fingers snapping. "Cullen. Is Cullen about?"

"I'm afraid neither is presently in Skyhold," Josephine submits. "They would have been happy to have an audience with you."

"So your Inquisitor and the commander of your military is gone—" Anora posits.

"We do not have a military," Josephine says, even if they do and hates herself for interrupting, "we do have soldiers that aid in the defense of Skyhold and attend to the sites where rifts have occurred in order to beat back the demons. They lend their assistance to small villages—"

"Small villages and towns. Cities. In fact," Anora says, "we are being flooded with reports that the Inquisition is stamping their mark all over Ferelden. On the journey here we saw not one town or village or city that has not been touched by the Inquisition's presence. Tell me, what do those banners mean, those that have been marked all over Ferelden like exes on a map? That they are property of the Inquisition?"

"No." She keeps from shouting the word. She keeps calm but her heart races. Leliana told her once that Alistair never wanted to be king while Anora had ruled behind King Cailan's name. It appears to still be true. She is nothing if not the shrewd and all too savvy daughter of Loghain Mac Tir. "It is a warning to the servants of Corypheus that those areas are under the protection of the Inquisition—"

"Then, might I ask," Teagan situates himself on the chair, "where the protection for Redcliffe was? I know that Grand Enchanter Fiona reached out to your Inquisition for assistance when the Inquisition was still in its infancy. She asked for help for the mages that were taking refuge in Redcliffe. An action that was supported by me and King Alistair. We all know the tragedy that took Redcliffe over a decade ago," Josephine nods solemnly. "And I do not think it was careless to offer them aid when they were being persecuted by templars. It was my understanding that the Inquisitor had agreed to at the very least meet with Fiona. Instead, she pursued an alliance with Lord Seeker Lucian Corin—a man who was content to allow a templar to strike down a revered mother in the Val Royeaux marketplace. Your Inquisitor has said Andraste sent her, that she is a servant of the faith—and yet, she allied herself and the Inquisition with a man of such questionable morals? With a man who spits on the Chantry and the values of Andraste?"

"It was a difficult decision," Josephine concedes, "in fact, it had been our intention to go to Redcliffe after our meeting with Lord Seeker." He is dead but she doubts the fact carries weight at this point. "However…"

"The Venatori came," Anora says, "and they took a number of those mages."

"After casting a spell on the whole of Redcliffe, myself included and sending anyone who might protect it away. They set fire to Redcliffe and killed a number of our citizens," Teagan finishes. Isolde's eyes glisten. Josephine fears there's something she might have missed. "And  _yet_ , I now see the flag of the Inquisition there. Offering its protection. Against what, I wonder."

"It's easy to offer protection when the threat is gone," Anora sets her glass of wine aside and looks at her evenly.

"I assure you, your majesty, that the threat is  _not_  gone." She bows her head and looks to Teagan. "I regret that the mages allied with the Venatori. They did attack Haven in force. That night, nearly everyone was lost, including our Inquisitor." This is what Corypheus wants, for everyone to tear themselves apart and ignore the true danger. "However… if the flag in Redcliffe is an eyesore I can arrange to have it removed at your word. The Inquisition grieves with you for the losses suffered at Redcliffe."

"Do you?" Isolde isn't laughable now. Her voice shakes.

There's an awkward silence.

"Do the troops leave when the flag goes?" Alistair eventually asks. "Because I've got to tell you. I'm seeing these soldiers of yours everywhere. Not just where the rifts are and far, far from Skyhold." He picks up a few crackers and slices of cheese, chewing thoughtfully. "Andraste, who knows how many soldiers you have in Orlais. I suppose this little operation is not so little after all."

"I am flattered you think the Inquisition is such a force," how odd that she typically has to convince Thedas that the Inquisition is much grander in scale than they think and now she has to convince the rulers of Ferelden the very opposite. "We might appear to be grand in scope but we have suffered many attacks from our enemies and we have lost people. Every day we survive is a battle hard won. All the Inquisition wants is for balance to be restored to Thedas. This war between the templars and the mages cannot be allowed to continue."

Bran has a bite of cheese, makes a face and sets the rest of it back on the platter. "But isn't this war largely the fault of Marian Hawke? I've heard word that she's  _here_. It's why I've come, along with a battalion of Kirkwall's guard. The people of Kirkwall are growing restless. They'd like her brought for trial. It was her associate who blew up the chantry in Kirkwall, killing Grand Cleric Elthina and for all we know, the Champion helped him do it. Does that  _also_  not fly in the face of your Inquisitor's claims that she is a servant of the faith? To shelter the woman who brought this chaos to Thedas?"

"I would submit," Josephine smiles despite how hot her head feels, "that it was the unchecked brutality of Knight-Commander Meredith's methods, along with Viscount Marlowe's ineffectiveness as a leader that allowed the situation to develop as it did. You were Seneschal then, were you not? What part did you play to stop the madness? Surely something, to earn your position as Viscount?"

Bran sits up, wiping cracker crumbs from his chest, his face going pale and then red.

Alistair whistles. "Well, I'm bored of this. Why not we resume in the morning? All this talk makes me want to take a nap." He stands and stretches his arms over his head, walking out. It's so unexpected that everyone looks to one another, confused. Teagan stands, murmuring that they'll continue later and, Isolde, Bran and Serendipity follow.

Only Anora remains. She stands at last and looks at Josephine, noticing her hands tightly gripping the desk. Josephine removes them and smiles at the queen. What a cold beauty she has. "You were the Antivan ambassador to the Orlesian court," Anora remarks, "at quite a young age."

"Your majesty has knowledge of me that many others do not," a nod, "your reputation is matched and does you good credit."

"Mh." She turns and leaves.

Josephine swallows hard and breathes. She did not expect to be on that end of the inquisition. What an uncomfortable feeling.

* * *

They have gathered in Josephine's study to discuss how to move forward with Ferelden's sovereignty.

"I've done some digging," Leliana says, "it appears Isolde's son Connor resisted the Venatori when they came to Redcliffe. He didn't agree with Grand Enchanter Fiona's submission. Things did not end well for him." Her eyelids half close and Josephine knows that she's lost in some memory of the past. "Poor boy. His life has not been easy." She slips down from the edge of Josephine's desk, sighing. "It would have been different if the Inquisitor had allied with the mages instead."

"You know what they say about hindsight. Who knows what might have happened if the Herald had allied with the mages. Perhaps it is the templars who would have attacked us. Thedas distrusts mages. I know you doubt Evelyn's cleverness but it is my belief that her decision was political—and it was rightly done. With abominations running wild over Thedas… the people need to feel safe. The templars have long been thought of as protectors of Thedas—however true, or untrue that may be. We have our reputation because of that decision."

"I think the world concerns itself too much with reputations and traditions. It's that sort of thinking that allows cruelty and injustice to thrive." Her fine eyebrows are narrowed, face twisted in contempt. She looks a bit like a snake in that light. Then the anger slips away from her and her face is placid, serene.

Josephine looks up at her. She looks tired and thin. Despite how flat her eyes can be, Josephine has never known anyone else that burns so brightly with passion. "Would you prefer we continue these talks at another time?"

"What other time? They're here now." She sits across from her.

"They're concerned about your Orlesian roots. I assured them the only thing you have in common with the Orlesians is your love of fashion."

"Only one of the things." She pushes the hood back from her head and runs her fingers through her hair. "Though I look little more than a pauper these days." She tilts her head back, smiling. "Maybe we can wear our pretty dresses for the Winter Palace."

"Even my sister has managed to net herself an invitation," Josephine comments wryly, "how is that little project coming along?" They need to be at the palace. How else will they warn Celene about the assassination attempt? And here the King and Queen are worried about the threat against Ferelden when all of Orlais could descend into madness should the Empress be eliminated.

"Better than I'd hoped. Sera has some Red Jennies there and some of our agents have recently been hired on in preparation for the event. You know how Orlesians are about elves—they're barely even people to them. So they talk freely in their presence. We're collecting secrets, the sort that makes houses and reputations fold." She smiles at that. "We'll have our invitations soon enough."

"That is excellent news. And it reminds me to not  _ever_  get on your bad side."

"Or I'll tell the world about your little doll stories?" She laughs when Josephine flushes. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Humph. You are terrible." A beat. "Anora is worried about the threat the Inquisition poses."

"Worried about keeping her crown, is she? Typical."

"They asked about our military and our presence in Thedas—Ferelden in particular. I deflected and stated that the Inquisition's aim is only to protect the people of Thedas—and hinted that we were the only ones that can, at this juncture in time."

"It's true and they have to accept it. Where were they when their people were starving and freezing in the night, when they were being butchered by mages and templars? Nowhere. Hiding. We were there. We have the Herald. We have the might. They're worried that their military is powerless against ours. They're right. We've taken their armies. We've taken their best. We have the templars and we have the most seasoned mages. They would be foolish to stand against us. If we wanted their kingdom, we could take it." She reclines against the chair, confident and relaxed. Josephine licks her lips. So they have become  _that_  powerful? That is… impressive and alarming. "What's your read on Anora and Alistair?"

"Anora is the brains of the operation. Ah," she considers, that isn't the way to put it. "She does the talking. She's most invested."

"As far as she's concerned, it's her father's legacy she's carrying. Protecting Ferelden. Keeping Ferelden away from the hands of any potential usurpers."

"Correct. But Alistair has Teagan on his side and his name and reputation carry weight. There isn't a man in Ferelden who wouldn't die for him—as they all know he would for them. He is a man of honor. In any case, Alistair grew bored with the talks and left and with him everyone else."

"Hm." Leliana rolls her neck, her fingers massaging. "They've yet to conceive a child. She didn't conceive one with Cailan either. The people blame her, of course. Idiots. Alistair's a Grey Warden. One of the heroes who stopped the Blight. It's said to be impossible for them to have children," she rolls her eyes, "but the fault will never lie with Alistair. The people love him. It helps that he's handsome and stupid. They can relate. He makes them laugh and he cuts a figure in armor. Forego Anora. Appeal to him. Set his mind at ease. He's as stubborn as anything so once he's set his foot down the matter will be finished. She's too old to get any ideas of defying him in her head."

"Too old? She's barely older than we are."

"Yes, but a king can have a child at any time. A woman cannot. You know, before Cailan died there were talks of getting rid of Anora and marrying him to Empress Celene so that _she_  could bear a child." She grins. "I wonder what Briala would make of that."

Josephine shakes her head. "That's still happening?" There have been whispers of their going ons for years. "But I understand. Anora will not risk the crown." Despite their differences, she cannot afford to lose her position. The people love Anora. But they love Alistair more. Leliana nods. Yes. Of course. She should have sensed that before. "Perhaps you should be queen."

She laughs. "A filthy Orlesian on the Fereldan throne? Beholden to the whims of the people? I would set my aims higher."

"Alistair is handsome."

"Then why not you marry him? Surely your family would approve of the match." Josephine frowns. "I prefer my lovers a tad more playful. I prefer a little more bite."

There's a knock at the door. Soon Alistair announces himself and is bid welcome. He enters, smiling, turning his head as if he's heard something. Josephine wonders if the Calling is affecting him as well. She and Leliana rise dutifully, curtsying before him. He waves the formalities away. "Lady Montilyet," he nods and stops in front of Leliana. "You haven't aged a day."

"Still full of it, I see." They embrace, Leliana kissing each cheek, her lips linger only long enough to make him question if he's imagining things. "You're looking well, King Alistair. After so many doubts of whether the crown would suit you." She straightens the crown on his head, looking into his face and then nodding. "I heard you and Queen Anora had questions for me. Shall I be questioned here or in your Fereldan court?" There's a touch of menace in her words, despite how playful her tone. Does he notice?

"Right. Look, just because I'm king doesn't mean I don't still  _loathe_  all this political nonsense. Wardens are supposed to stay out of it, you know. Nobody ever remembers that part." A beat. "Do you know people still tell tales of you in Lothering? You made quite the reputation for yourself as a scamp, even as a chantry sister. That takes talent."

She giggles. Maker. How transformed she is. Her eyes so bright. "What can I say? I like to have fun."

"Well you do make me wonder about your idea of 'fun'. And you," he looks to Josephine and to Leliana, "don't fool me. You don't get to be spymaster without being quick and sharp. You and Morrigan aren't too far apart. She's just more… witchy."

"Is that the word you meant to use?" Leliana smiles. Josephine doesn't know who Morrigan is. "Comparing the two of us." She tsks. "I suppose you always have been brave."

"And stupid right? Maybe only Morrigan would add that part…" He muses. "In any case, I'm here for very official business." He fights a smile. Josephine arches an eyebrow. "Erm—it would appear that—a bucket of… slop has fallen on Isolde. Somebody hung it from her door. She walked in and splat!" Josephine goes cold. Leliana doesn't respond but her eyes dance. "Was this your doing, Leliana?"

"Me? How amateurish. Did you see it?"

"No. Yes. I didn't see it  _happen_. I saw her afterward. Ghastly! Like a melting darkspawn—only hurling obscenities in Orlesian. Quite—" he's in the midst of giggles again, he clears his throat and nods sternly. "Awful. Quite awful.

Fortunately it was gruel. If it had been pig's blood I might have been very, very upset. As—upset as I am now, yes. I told Teagan and Isolde that I would take care of this personally, so here I am, issuing my complaint and taking care of it personally."

"I am so- so – sorry," Josephine begins. He and Leliana might think it amusing but she cannot find any joy in it. Who's going to have to grovel with apologies about this? She is. When she gets her hands on Sera…! "I cannot imagine who might do such a thing. I will issue an apology personally—I will—"

He waves that away. "No, no, no—she won't hear of it. Then she'd have to acknowledge that somebody set up a bucket of slop and that it succeeded in making a mess of her. Too embarrassing. If you could treat her as if she's Andraste, returned to life for the rest of her stay, that should suffice."

Josephine would rather grovel. "Of course. You are too kind, your majesty."

"Ah, see that, Josie? You're off the hook." Leliana looks to Alistair. "Our dear ambassador has quite the talent for making loyal Andrastians feel as if they've died and touched the Maker. Simple as a flick of the wrist."

Josephine smiles at Alistair as if Leliana has said nothing questionable. She doesn't miss the spymaster's wink. Dreadful woman. "But what am I to do with those who aren't loyal Andrastians?" Josephine wonders aloud though she knows well that she must tailor each conversation to every individual. If it were only as simple as dispensing the same brand of diplomacy to every person, anyone could do it. "If I might ask, your majesty… what is your position in regard to the Champion of Kirkwall? Do you stand with Viscount Bran?"

"You're asking me?"

"You're the King of Ferelden. Your opinion carries more weight than any other."

"Don't remind me." He takes a breath. "Honestly, I don't know. I met Hawke for all of a minute in Kirkwall. She stopped the qunari invasion and was there when the grand cleric was blown up. I can't say I know much more than that."

Leliana reclines against the desk, crossing her arms. "She appears to have some knowledge of Corypheus. I think you can agree that any insight we might have on a darkspawn magister comes before giving the people of Kirkwall a target to pin their frustrations on."

"I don't govern Kirkwall."

"But you have some sway," Josephine says. "Viscount Bran was hanging on your every word. No doubt he admires you as the rest of Thedas does. The topic of the Champion will come up again. I think everyone can agree that what is most important, before these tiresome politics, is keeping Thedas safe. Everyone is grateful for the sacrifice of the Grey Wardens in stopping the Blight. But if Corypheus has his way…" She considers. "I do not know. I was not there during the Blight. I cannot say I know the horrors that you faced…"

"But I can." Leliana says. "What happened in Haven? What happened in Redcliffe? Imagine that in Denerim, imagine Lothering taken again. Only this time, outside of families warring with each other, we'll have a Blight without end. Are politics worth losing Thedas?"

He lifts his arms. "All right. I get it. Maker—you know, I can't dictate what the Viscount does."

"No, but you can use what influence you have to lead him to the moral decision. I know you would not forget your people," Josephine says. "No rightful king would neglect protecting his kingdom."

"You are aware that Anora's focus is  _not_  Hawke but this Inquisition?" He looks at them dubiously. "We don't always agree but I'm not blind. You've gathered a tremendous force. And that's not including all your people scattered throughout Ferelden. For all I know, there are others about that don't wear your uniforms. What is the aim of gathering so many?"

"We shelter the faithful," Josephine says. "You were a templar once. You must understand how hungry people are for faith. For refuge in this world that has grown dangerous and chaotic. Many have lost family and their homes. They are lost and we protect them. They offer their services to the Inquisition in return. Like the Inquisition that came before—once peace has been restored, order has been restored—our weapons will be set aside."

"And this Inquisition will be disbanded?" he asks.

They have not spoken of that. And who know if their weapons would truly be set aside. No doubt the Inquisition would continue for some time to ensure that things stayed in their proper order. No doubt others will come to them for guidance. No. The Inquisition will not be disbanded once Corypheus is defeated. Why should it be? Peace must be ensured. She will not work so hard to walk away.

Leliana laughs. "How you worry. Most of our soldiers are farm hands who've never so much as held a weapon. No templar training could make them a credible threat to any established kingdom. Some of them are so young. Thirteen, fourteen years old. Babes who have lost their parents." A sad sigh. "So many lost in this war."

"If you'd like you could examine our rosters," Josephine volunteers. Yes. They have these books. The ones for occasions such as these and the others with the accurate documentation. "We do not normally share them…" she looks at Leliana questioningly, who nods, "but I do not know how we could refuse the King of Ferelden." She goes to her desk and pulls open a drawer, taking the large leather bound book out. Ah yes, staying up all those nights working on this nonsense, making it look legitimate was well worth it. She carries it to Alistair, holding it out to him.

He takes it. "Maybe Anora could give this a look."

Josephine's heart skips. She bows her head, smiles. "If that would please your majesty, you are both welcome to it. But ah, not for too long a time. We do need to update it regularly. I am certain you understand."

Alistair's brow furrows. He hands it back. "Hold on to it. I'll take you at your word." He looks at Leliana. "Don't make me regret this."

Leliana nods demurely, Josephine unsure of whom will be left with the greatest regrets at the end of this.

* * *

"Lady Montilyet!" Dorian sways to his feet, raising a goblet of wine in greeting to her. Josephine crinkles her nose. She has not spent much time in the tavern and she is realizing why. Ah, so many brave men and women who have evidently not bathed in some time. It is rather pungent. Are they allergic to soap and water? And those that come here, has the swill dulled their senses? Could they not don some perfumed water to try to cover it? Oh, no. That will make it worse. She has not forgotten the perils of fashion in the grand court. "Come to spend some time with the commoners?" he asks jovially.

In a manner of speaking. Though he is hardly common. "Ser Pavus, what things you say," she scans the room but doesn't see Sera. She keeps her voice light. "Have you by any chance seen Sera?"

"Sera. Sera. Sera. Sera…" he considers, his eyes darting sideways. No. He's taken  _her_  side. "I can't say that I have."

A moment later Josephine hears her raucous laughter. Narrowing her eyes and focusing she moves away, taking the stairs up. The bard Maryden is singing a song about the elf, how likable she makes her out to be.  _Sera was never an agreeable girl, her tongue tells tales of rebellion…_ Maker, and what a catchy song it is. It'll be stuck in her head for days. How annoying. Why has nobody written a song about her? Diplomacy rhymes with… with something. Well, she's a diplomat, not a song writer. She's heard Maryden's rendition about Leliana. Brave woman.

There's a room ahead with the warm light, flush with bright colors, a bookshelf filled with strange, haphazard collections. It must be Sera's. Josephine moves to it.

Sera is flat on her stomach on the window bench, engrossed in some book. Josephine frowns. Why can't she be like this all the time? Quiet and pretty and out of the way? Josephine moves swiftly, taking a hold of her ear and pulling her to her feet. She's had to do this with Yvette before. And certainly her brothers did it to her. Sera yelps, her book falling from the bench. "Ow, ow, ow, what's the big idea?" she swats at Josephine's hand.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" she still holds on to her ear that is surprisingly warm and soft. Interesting.

"What? No? Is this about the cheese? Leliana said I could have it."

"No, this is not about the cheese," she hisses. Well. She supposes it is in part about the cheese. "This is about the bucket and Isolde," she twists her ear. Sera squeals before yanking free, dabbing her ear and pouting. Oh. She looks quite different when she pouts doesn't she? Josephine feels a pang of guilt. "How could you do that? You are here to aid the Inquisition and you would insult an important guest in such a fashion? The arl of Redcliffe is unhappy with us as it is. Who knows what negotiations you've squandered?" She has to fight to keep from shouting. "I do not take your arrows and…" Sera waits. "Bend them." A cock of her eyebrow. "Sabotage them. Do not interfere with my work."

"What's a prissy Orlesian noblewoman got to do with anything? She the arl's saddle? Besides, I  _had_  to do the bucket. It was too good to pass up. Her gracious ladybits wouldn't let me do it with you. The bucket. Not the other thing. Bet she wouldn't let me do the other, either. Jealous one, that." She rubs her ear gingerly again and picks up the book, setting it aside and climbing up to the window. Josephine half wonders if she intends to jump off in an attempt to get away from her. "What did Shadow of Birds think?"

"I do not know that Leliana noticed." The lie tumbles from her lips too easily but why should Sera be rewarded for her behavior? "She has a great many things under consideration. Your games are irrelevant."

"Oh. Right. That why you're here, all huffy?" She pouts. "But nothing from her? Shite. All that work. I set it perfect, I did." She clambers out the window and onto the roof. Josephine draws closer, against her better judgment. A chilly breeze blows, making Josephine shiver. Sera smiles and beckons her. "Come on. I won't push you, promise."

That's reassuring. "I'll stay put." The ambassador to the Inquisition can't be seen traipsing along rooftops. In her younger days she fantasized about such childish things. She imagined hiking her dress up, giving it the right tear and running free. These days it's bodices, corsets, her breathing restricted, everything planned and controlled. Comfortable. Comforting. Safe.

Sera stares out, pale hand wrapped around the frame of the window. Lily in the moonlight. Where is Evelyn, Josephine wonders. Is she well? Sera's bangs rustle in the breeze. "Look. Lights in the distance. Coming close." Lights? Josephine had not anticipated any parties arriving at night. Perhaps they are refugees slowed by circumstances beyond their control. "Pretty."

Josephine cranes her neck to get a better look but has no luck. She hikes up her dress and stands on the window bench to follow Sera's gaze. What lights? She sees the torches of Skyhold. Candles lit by bedroom windows. Sera points and Josephine focuses. Lights. Not lights. A glow. Red and throbbing. Past the gates.

"You hear that?" Sera asks. "I can. Speaking, singing like a song."


	15. Terrors

Carver was right. The Wardens are using blood magic.

Evelyn replays the scene in her mind, memories of men and women of the Order, butchering one another and binding themselves to demons. Time languished, colors blurred, black and red cropped around her vision. A fearful, righteous rage coursed through her. It likely kept the panic under control, kept her going when there was no air in her lungs. Livius was there. Her would be killer, sinister as a nug. He absconded in the midst of chaos. When everything was still, and painted in blood, Evelyn noted his absence. She lacked the necessary air to scream. She looked around her in a fugue, her palm on fire with the Anchor.

Now they begin the trek to Adamant. Cullen and the Inquisition soldiers will follow, traveling a more direct route that will grant them access with the trebuchets and battering rams.

Hawke, Carver and Varric talk amongst themselves. They look like a family, dwarf and all and she can't help but feel some jealousy and guilt for that jealousy. She has her family. What is there left of the Hawkes except for the siblings? What if something happens to one of them? What will the other do?

Cassandra walks beside her. Evelyn has appreciated the endless fighting. She isn't sure whether she's disappointed in Cassandra or herself. Cassandra told her to wait in Crestwood. She ran off. Was she hotheaded? Wasn't it the right thing to do? Who failed whom? "I insist that you speak," Cassandra says. "I cannot handle so much brooding. Junior Hawke and Blackwall are enough."

Blackwall. The Grey Warden who joined the expedition despite her reservations. It's her fault for listening to Josephine and Leliana wasn't far behind.  _If something has gone awry with the wardens, what better ally?_  The spymaster wouldn't hear of her objections. Evelyn does not trust him. She tells herself it isn't jealousy. What is there to be jealous of? Josephine touched her face before she left.  _Be safe._  Why isn't Blackwall affected by the Calling? She looks at him. Maybe he isn't a very good warden. She has nothing in common with him and she resents that Cassandra would say so. "If you're looking for a chatty companion, Varric's right over there." She doesn't feel like talking. It's hot. She's thirsty. She cannot stop sweating. She thinks she sees water in the distance but there never is. Cassandra bears it in stride.

"I could do without the dwarf." She scowls. "If only he'd been so chatty when I was interrogating him." Maybe, Evelyn wants to say, you're not a very good interrogator. The thought makes her feel guilty again and she wonders if she'll ever feel any kind of contentment, something other than shame and guilt and responsibility. What tiring feelings. She thinks of Josephine's eyes, piercing and hazy in one. What is she thinking? What does Josephine mean when she questions her? "I've lost you again."

"What?" Evelyn snaps the word and the group looks back at them. They walk, the sand crunching beneath them. "If the Wardens are binding themselves to demons I don't know that we have any course but to put a stop to them. Permanently."

She hears hurried footsteps and then Blackwall is walking beside her. Evelyn walks faster. He moves more briskly. "I heard what you said." Sweat runs down the curves of his ruddy face. His hair is tousled.

What if he were a noble?  _Focus._ "If you're looking to argue, I prefer we not." She clenches her jaw and feels her incisors grind together. "They're using blood magic. Binding themselves to demons. And if Corypheus has them under their thrall you know what's in store for Thedas." She still dreams of the Wardens. What if Carver hadn't arrived? What if she had to fight Blackwall off? She's strong but how could she withstand his strength? He could kill her.  _He won't kill you._  What if he's mad like the rest of them? Her stomach knots. She has a bad feeling. She's had a bad feeling since they began the trek to Adamant.

"They can be reasoned with."

"The time of reasoning is over. You can't reason with someone who's gone mad with fear."

Cassandra looks at her and Evelyn wipes the sweat from her forehead, hoping to stop the burning in her eyes.

* * *

The desert is chilly. An occasional gust of wind batters their tents, making the campfire lash in all directions. They sit around the fire, exchanging pieces of bread, brushing away sand, scrambling from scorpions clicking their claws.

Blackwall and Cassandra sit together, Cassandra smiling at whatever thing he has said. His rare laughter is loud and booming. Varric chuckles. "Think you could keep it down over there, Hero? I'd prefer not to draw the attention of every demon and Venatori in the area."

The day has been long. They all stink of stale sweat and blood. Hawke and Carver are huddled by the entrance of one of the three tents. Carver looks at Blackwall. Hawke's eyes go a sharper blue when lighting on Cassandra, watchful and aware, not the blank slate they've become. Varric thinks of the woman he met in Hightown, young, bright eyed, clever but still impressionable. There's no way his proposition for the Deep Roads Expedition would have impressed this woman.  _I'll make my own way, s_ he'd say before moving on.

She catches him looking and smiles, winks. Maybe she's still in there somewhere. A look to Carver. He scowls. Still a shit. But with a legitimate reason to complain this time. Varric pulls Bianca from his back and squints at her. He'd hate for his girl to jam. He'll have to keep her sand free and properly oiled. Never know when you need to let out a quick shot. Carver is surlier than ever. "Still playing with that thing?" he asks.

"Settle down, Junior. Just because Bianca doesn't like being held by gruff Grey Wardens is no reason to get huffy." Carver's scowling has become an art. The whole of his brow goes down, his eyes nearly disappearing. "So besides blood magic, what do Wardens do? Grow facial hair? Between you and Hero over there, my chest is starting to get jealous."

Blackwall perks. Carver scoffs. Hawke slaps his shoulder playfully. "Now, now Varric. Don't tease. He's been trying to grow that out for years." She touches a hand to his cheek and he slaps it away, she attempts once more and he sulks, letting her rub her palm along his cheek as if she were scrubbing a dirty floor. "I think it's lovely. Why, you almost look like a man."

"Happy to know you're still a miserable bitch."

He bites back a smile. Hawke barks a laugh. Varric feels a small pang. Despite the endless fighting, they've missed each other. Ancestors. They're the only ones left. There are many who would hunt Hawke down for what happened in Kirkwall. And how long until the Calling or this madness with the Wardens takes Carver? Varric squirms uncomfortably. Where's a carta dwarf he can pay off to fix this?

Cassandra's disapproval is clear. "That is no way to speak to your sister."

Carver's embarrassed. Hawke's face shifts, from playful to wounded. "No matter how I try, I just can't seem to win his approval. I suppose it's the bane of being a dutiful, older sister."

Varric guffaws, nearly falling into the fire while Carver mutters under his breath. Cassandra gets to her feet and stretches her legs, her arms over her head. "I cannot imagine you being dutiful about anything."

"Is it possible you haven't imagined hard enough? I could help with that."

They lock eyes and Varric looks between them. Carver gets to his feet, kicking heaps of sand everywhere in the process. "Hey!" He ignores Varric's cry and moves to the outskirts of the camp. Varric searches the landscape and can't find the Inquisitor. Shit.  _Keep it together, dwarf._  He finds her not a moment later, seated facing the darkness. He's panicked for nothing and he worries he really is the mother hen others think he is. Carver crashes to a sitting beside her. Evelyn looks at him, steady and apprehensive.

* * *

"Mind if I have a nip?" The Inquisitor looks at Carver blankly, swallowing the small lyrium bottle in the palm of her hand. Carver stares out into the vast expanse of black, littered with stars, like thrown pebbles. A bit like the Deep Roads really. Black, with spots of light here and there. He wonders what it'd be like to look up close. Is it cold? Would it burn? "You keep that close like it's a bad habit."

"I have a lot of those."

"You're good with that sword of yours. Almost as good as I am." He doesn't get a smile, only that evenness that has taken a hold of his sister. He looks the Inquisitor over. She looks human again. Imagine that. Hasn't thanked him for saving her life. That's gratitude for you. Not that it matters. Who the Void ever looks at him when Marian is about? "Tell me about this warden of yours." That's it. Her eyes spark despite how she regards him with caution. "Not many of us wander on our own. Not unless we're on the run from something. Blackwall. Heard the name. But he's not hearing the Calling. How the Void is he doing it? I've asked but he's dodgy."

"I don't know. Maybe he doesn't have whatever it is Corypheus can use to control the Wardens."

The Blight? The taint? No. He's a warden. He's got to have that. It must be something else. But why would the Inquisitor have answers when he doesn't? "Is there a reason you're out here sulking on your own?"

"I'm not sulking." She opens her palms and closes them, opens and closes, drinks the remainder of the lyrium and throws the small bottle. Her eyes have a luminescent, throbbing quality to them before the light fades. The lyrium bottle clinks in the distance. "After what happened during the Blight—does being a Warden make any of it better? Your sister," she adds.

"Bethany?" Bethany. "Grey wardens stopped the Blight. Lovely. But it wasn't me that did it. I couldn't save her. I joined not knowing it was a death sentence. I joined when the whole of Thedas doesn't give a lick about us and just in time to have the Calling start thirty years before its time. Isn't that a kick in the nuts?" Just his luck.

"But Hawke still has you. That was the point, wasn't it? I read Varric's book."

That stupid book. Carver keeps a copy in his knapsack. He's underlined a substantial number of sections, intending to follow up with the dwarf for clarification. He demands edits. _Junior threw a fit when his sister wouldn't bring him to the Deep Roads and started crying in the middle of Hightown for all to see._  "Oh, sure. We have tender family reunions every year, at Mother and Bethany's graves." Malcolm's grave is gone. Carver's returned to Lothering. Nothing's left. He wants a drink. "Look, Marian's my sister and I love her. Anyone tries to come after her—I'll tear them apart. But you have to admit she's a complete tit." Evelyn nods. "Do you have any siblings?"

"Three brothers."

"Younger? Older?"

"Older."

He reads the resigned tone of her words. "Isn't that how it is? They do the test run on the older ones, try to bloody get it right. By the time you come along they're over it. Sure, go play on the swing, go climb a tree, get out of my hair. You do it. It's great. You think you're free then you realize it doesn't matter to them what you do." He might be projecting. He sighs inwardly. "I overheard you talking to Blackwall earlier. I know things seem bad with the wardens but lashing out won't help anyone. We can't kill them. That's what Corypheus wants. With no wardens, there's no one to stop the Blights. He can take over all of it."

"I'm not discussing this with a warden."

"You don't trust me." She rubs her forehead. "I saved you." Fine, he can't be honorable and keep it unspoken. If it were Marian she'd make some stupid little quip, be charming about it. Or at least, that's what she would have done. Her eyes have taken that glistening sheen to them that the templars have.

"You're a hunted warden. You don't speak for them. I'm not entering negotiations with you. That's final." Perfect. Just what he needs, another pissy party member on an expedition. "What's it like seeing her after so long?"

He tries not to take it personally that she doesn't care to know about him. And why would she? He's just a warden of an order that's gone mad. Not the Champion of Kirkwall. "Oh. Just peachy."

"She worries about you. She thinks she's bad luck." A beat. "She's afraid to be near you."

He looks back at his sister, laughing and joking with Varric and Cassandra. "All her life, all of mine, she's been nothing but trouble." His expression changes. "Funny how Kirkwall turned on her after everything fell apart. All through the years it's 'help me' this, 'save me' that, 'stop this one', 'stop that one', 'we love you'. The second that chantry blew up it was over. Never liked that bastard. Zealot. And who did it all come down on? Marian. All that sacrifice—what did it mean? It's not like the wardens. Bloody heroes we are," he rolls his eyes. Got off on a bit of a tangent—he could have just said Marian's fear is bullshit. "I don't believe in luck."

"Where do you think she'll go after this?"

"To the Void for all I know. Do you think she ever tells me her plans?"

"Maybe you'll stay together."

He scoffs. "Maker, I hope not."

* * *

He keeps looking at her. He's been looking at her since she got to Skyhold. Is he surprised she's still alive? "You're staring, Varric. Are you going to give me the passionate night I've long dreamed of?"

Varric chuckles. "Keep dreaming, Hawke."

Dreaming. That's all she does. She keeps her arms folded behind her head, staring at the tent and seeing nothing. So much quiet. She's used to scuffles, fights, whores in the alleyways, the carta, swearing sailors on the docks. The sound of hay swept in a Dark Town clinic floor. Anders' voice. Sometimes she returned to the estate. He'd pick her up and spin her around. It was so stupid. How she laughed. How it made her heart happy. The brush of his palm along her cheek.  _I would drown us in blood to keep you safe._ She narrows her eyes. The explosion made her ears ring and then it was quiet. How she hates the quiet.

"Hawke?"

"Mh?"

"Have you heard anything I've said?"

She searches for cleverness and doesn't find it. "No." They lie in the dark. In the quiet. "Carver's much less mopey, isn't he? I suppose that's what years will do to a person. Time. It's a brand of magic itself." Tricky. If it hadn't been for Anders, Carver would have died in the Deep Roads. How she wept when they got to the surface.  _I brought him down there. I did this to him!_  Anders told her everything would be all right. He was right. And now she can't mourn him. She can't mourn 'the monster'. They'll think she's the same. They'll shame her for it and she's already got so much shame it's suffocating.

"You all right, kid? Thinking of Cassandra?" A beat. "Thinking of Blondie?"

"Thinking of your chest hair. Won't you let me run my fingers through it at least once? What if the Inquisitor discovers her inner templar and tears me limb from limb? You'll regret this night for the rest of your days." What's so special about a woman that doesn't know how to leave? What's so special about a woman that lets herself be cast about by the wind? _You resisted. What did it get you?_

"I'll take that chance. Though if you're feeling sentimental, I could always cut a tuft out and put it in a locket for you. What do you say?"

Her focus is piercing. The thoughts painful. She tries smiling in the darkness but it does nothing. It's only in the reassured look of others that she can find that confidence. She can't breathe. "We let that monster loose on the world. What if he takes Carver? He told me he hears the Calling. In the silence. The arch demon is shrieking in his dreams. He's scared. Maker. What if I lose him? What if—" she stops, gulping down her breath to keep quiet. Varric's hand, strong, warm, circles hers.

"That won't happen."

"You don't know. You don't know anything." She yanks her hand away. "Don't make promises, Varric. I've seen enough broken." Hadn't she promised to keep Bethany safe? Her mother? Carver? Anders. She trailed her fingers along his chest. Kissed it. Professed her love. It was stupid to think that she could be happy. How did she not see it coming? Was she blind? Just stupid? How could she let it happen? Tears spill silently down her face.

"Have you forgotten I'm Thedas' most popular writer? I know how to tell a story. You won't lose Carver, Chuckles. I promise," he takes her hand and plops it onto his chest. "There. Now you won't need a locket."

She smiles for his benefit, even if he can't see it. The smile feels unnatural on her face. Where was his storytelling when she lost her mother and Bethany? Where was she?

* * *

The Venatori are hazy, wavering shadows cut into the edges of the bright sky and the burning sands. Drops of sweat sizzle and swiftly evaporate in the sand. Evelyn runs forward. Cassandra doesn't call out to her. It's no use. "Let's move!" Cassandra shouts at the rest of the group. They hurry to keep pace.

A splash of sand and a head separates from the Venatori mage's body. Evelyn screams, swinging her sword ferociously, throwing three others back. Maker, the woman is possessed. One of the Venatori twitches on the ground, his guts spilling out, he sputters, trying to keep them in. Cassandra flips her longsword, grabbing the hilt firmly and wedging the blade into the Venatori's heart. He stops.

There's a blast of fire and the group stumbles back. Varric shouts his ridiculous flirtations at his crossbow while Blackwall and Carver fight diligent and serious. Another group of Venatori pushes forward, swarming around them. Their silver helmets cast blinding rays of light. Cassandra turns, momentarily blinded.

Stillness. The heat, the electricity goes out of the air and there is only silence. Evelyn moves while the others stop, unsettled. One of the Venatori shouts 'templar!'. The screaming doesn't last long. An arm is hacked off, another lifts his hands in surrender. His hands fly through the air to land twitching in the sands. It would be comical if not for the shrieking Venatori, rolling around the sand and grabbing at his stumps. Evelyn pursues the other Venatori who runs. She tackles him to the ground. "I'm unarmed!"

"So am I."

Cassandra doesn't recognize her voice. She goes to them. The Venatori raises his arms but Evelyn beats against them until they finally come loose and her fist, wrapped in the finest steel, slams into his face, crunch, crunch, crunch. The protests die away, becoming gurgling noises and then just wet. Cassandra grabs hold of Evelyn's shoulders and throws her off him. She glances back at the Herald; she's on her side,bloodied, still.

"Why'd you stop her?" Carver asks.

"He couldn't cast spells. He was helpless."

"So? He's a Venatori."

"Just a mage," Hawke says. "Thanks for that." She looks down at Evelyn but doesn't extend a hand. "I love having my magic taken away in the middle of a fight, templar." She wipes blood back from her mouth, a gift from a Venatori before Varric buried an arrow in his neck.

Evelyn doesn't respond to her. Cassandra looks down at the Venatori but there isn't a face there anymore. The group mills around before removing themselves. The handless Venatori has since bled to death. Cassandra kneels before the Herald. "Are you all right?" Her armor is bright red and dripping. Her breathing is raspy. She has a hand over her heart, as if pledging devotion. Cassandra touches her arm and Evelyn looks at her, eyes blinding as any reflection of the sun. Her rage is white hot. Is it directed at her? "You are better than that."

"Do you think so?" she challenges.

"We still have a ways to go to Adamant. You cannot throw yourself headfirst into danger. I will not allow it."

"You won't  _allow_  it?" She gets to her feet and nearly falls over. The blood on her face makes her look wild. Sand clings to her. "I'm the Inquisitor.  _You_  answer to  _me_.  _I_  make the decisions! Understand?"

"Grow up," Hawke tells her. "You're deranged."

"What?"

Evelyn heads to her but Cassandra grabs her arm. "Why you are behaving this way? I do  _not_  understand why you're doing this." Though she has her suspicions. "I will not allow you to charge into danger again. I will stop you. I will keep you safe the best way I know how. I am not letting you out of my sight again." Evelyn's nostrils flare. "Hate me for it, if you wish. Hate me  _more_ , if that suits you." Her jaw quakes.

Evelyn picks up her greatsword and moves past her, past the brutalized Venatori bodies. If she regrets the violence, she does not show it. "Let's keep moving."

* * *

"Do you think it was right of her to kill him like that?"

Where is Varric, Cassandra wonders? That is who the question should be directed to. She feels as if Hawke is asking her to pick sides. She's seen the trouble that gets one into. Cassandra purposefully keeps her back to the ground. She will not look at her. The tent is claustrophobic. "How many templars have you killed with your magic?" She doesn't answer. Does she not wish to disappoint her? Has she simply lost count? Did she ever care? "She cut that Venatori's hands off."

Yes. Cassandra noticed just as she now notes the blank tone of Hawke's voice. It must be a terrifying thing for a mage. She has heard stories of templars cutting off the hands of apostates. She has never seen it in action. It is troubling that Evelyn has done so. Perhaps there was no thought behind it. Perhaps it was coincidental.  _Perhaps you are closing your eyes as you have done before._  "You're angry at the wrong person."

"Who should I be angry at?"

"The Venatori. The Magisters. The world." She doesn't know. Her apostate lover. Perhaps Hawke is only angry at herself. Perhaps she is frightened of Evelyn just as Evelyn has clearly become frightened of apostates. Even her relationship with Dorian has suffered.

"Why not be angry at the Inquisitor who hurled herself at an enemy that didn't know we were there?"

Because, despite it all, Cassandra finds it difficult to be angry at Evelyn. Perhaps once the guilt fades she'll find that rancor. In the meantime, why exhaust her temper on a woman who is experiencing some difficulty adjusting to fighting after her experiences in Crestwood? "After your difficulties I thought you might be more understanding."

Hawke adjusts beside her, a small sigh her response. "Her fear is making her stupid. She's taking lyrium. It's an addiction she weaned off and now she's back on it. Can't you smell it coming off of her?"

No, she cannot. And she's surprised Hawke notices at all. She drinks as much lyrium, doesn't she? Where would Hawke be without lyrium? In a grave with her family. Cassandra glances at her, an outline in the dark. "I have tried to not smell any of us." Fortunately they found a small lagoon some hours ago. They were able to take turns, keep watch, wipe away the blood and sweat before moving on. How long before they're soaked in filth again? "You should not judge her. Her heart's in the right place."

"Even if that were true, do you think it would actually mean anything? You're so naïve."

Cassandra says nothing, only feels a hot crawl of shame creep up her neck to her cheeks. Why do people keep saying those words to her? Since when did hope become naive? "I have to believe in something."

"Sure. But it doesn't have to be her."

* * *

Varric extends the flask to the Inquisitor. "Have a drink. Guaranteed to grow hair on your chest. Or at least burn a hole through your stomach." The Inquisitor takes it with a tired smile and for a moment he doesn't recognize her. It's the two of them on watch tonight. They haven't spent much time together and the only reason he thinks he's along for this Adamant business is for the Hawke's sake. Outside of the Herald's capacity for miracles, Varric can't say he knows her at all. "You've been as prickly as Solas lately so instead of asking if you mind, I think I'll just take a seat." He grunts, getting down beside her and tries to not be offended at the second long drink she takes from the flask. There are endless sand dunes in the distance, the sky a light blue, turning deep as the ocean.

"I don't think we've ever sat together."

He chuckles. "Maybe if I had chiseled features like Cassandra I'd be in the running?" She frowns a little, her cheeks growing dusky. "It's all right. I'm here for this whole Inquisition thing. We don't have to be friends but it might be nice." She hadn't exactly taken his side against Cassandra when the Hawke fiasco came up. Looked a bit like a dwarf caught fudging the books. But she didn't draw a knife like they might have so he's grateful. "So, the rumors going around true? You and Ruffles?" She pales. He laughs. "I thought you were a Cassandra girl. Glad to know you finally got some taste." She glowers at him and he extends the flask again in a peace offering. Truthfully, he doesn't mind the Seeker. When she isn't pummeling things to a pulp she even has some depth, despite the complete absence of charm.

"Cassandra wasn't exactly interested."

"And if she  _were_?"

"She's  _not._  Anyway—I like Josephine just fine." A shake of her head. "She's fine."

"A glowing endorsement. Let's get her a placard. Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador to the Inquisition: she's fine."

"Her reputation and her duty to the Inquisition come first. Whatever's left over is what I get. Is that how it's supposed to be? I'm not complaining," she complains. "The Inquisition comes first. I know that's how it should be." Another shake of her head and Varric senses she's said too much. She returns the flask. "Forget what I've said. Please. It makes it sound… I'm tired, is all."

"I'm as silent as the grave. Say, Herald. When do you think you and our grumpy seeker will be on speaking terms again?" Varric has seen Cassandra fret. No doubt she's at a loss when she has to use her words. Dumb ox of a woman. Ah. He misses Aveline. "You want to talk about what happened in Crestwood?" The Inquisitor shakes her head. "Mind if I do a little talking?" She doesn't respond and he takes that as his cue to continue. "First off—let me just say—what happened to you was awful." Not that it needs saying. She was gone for days, kidnapped, assaulted by Venatori and Grey Wardens and as far as he can tell, she doesn't remember everything that happened. That's what happens when you're starved and take too many kicks to the head. Or something so awful happens that you can't hang on to it. What happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes? Another thing gone into the ether. "You don't really strike me as the chatty sort and I doubt you want to cry it all away on my chest—but if you do, I'm here."

"I'll pass."

"Fair enough. But this is what I wanted to say: we didn't find you and I'm sorry. I don't think anyone's sorrier than Cassandra. She spent just about every hour of the days and nights you were gone out in that shit hole looking for you. She didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She was a terror. We all thought she was going to get herself killed. It's true, she didn't tell anyone you were gone. She was afraid Corypheus' lot would hear word and descend on Crestwood. Or Ancestors, go after Skyhold. I don't know if that was the right thing to do but you're here. I know you're upset but why not bury the hatchet? Er—metaphorically speaking. Whatever you're thinking, however angry, however disappointed you are—it isn't anything she doesn't already know or hasn't told herself."

She shivers or maybe she trembles, voice dry as any bone. "All right."

* * *

They hit her again and again, taking the armor from her, forcing her face into the mud, down her throat, binding her arms behind her back. Her wrists strain and bleed. She's drowning. She's going to die. They're going to kill her. Evelyn wakes, fist throbbing, Varric muttering while she gasps for breath. She crawls out of the tent, hauling herself another few feet and panting in front of the campfire. Blackwall, on watch, looks at her and comes closer. Carver stands. She holds up a hand to keep them at bay and retreats into the tent.

"Ancestors," Varric rubs his eyes and nose. "Did you confuse me for a Fade demon?"

"Sorry," the word is made of broken air. She curls back on her side, heart pounding, wide alert. She can't sleep. She shouldn't sleep. She yanks the thin sheet over her head and measures her breathing. Is she going mad? It's over. It's over. It's been over. She's been hit before. She's been hurt before. This is no different. She squeezes her eyes shut but the darkness encroaches. She places her hand over her heart, trying to keep it in, fingers digging so deeply she's afraid they'll go hot and wet, a trembling mass against them.

* * *

They've stopped to rest, breaking out their water skins and drinking to dull their unquenchable thirst. Carver hopes they reach Adamant soon. They're all sunburned and dehydrated and growing more fatigued by the day. At this rate they'll arrive at the fortress and pass out at the gates. The chatter of the group has died down and they've grown tired to the point where they walk for hours without a word to one another. Not like in the old days where everyone talked incessantly. Or bickered incessantly.

Hawke is stooped, staring at Varric's face, tsking. Varric pushes her hand away until she gives up and goes to Carver. She whistles. "I was just telling Varric that if he values his life he'll stop sharing tents with our dear Inquisitor. Have you seen his eye?"

"I saw it." Everyone's seen it. It's black and nearly swollen shut. The Inquisitor packs a punch.

"I thought you'd be happy. You've never liked Varric. Silly me. I forgot you hate happiness."

"I'd be happier if she hadn't scared the piss out of me screaming her head off."

"I didn't hear!" She brightens. "Tell me everything. What did she say? Was this before or after she punched Varric?"

"How the Void am I supposed to know when she punched him?" He and Blackwall kept nodding their heads, the conversation between them making him yearn for the days when Gamlen regaled him with stories of Wallop matches. A bloodcurdling scream chased their exhaustion away. Everyone who had been asleep rushed out of their tents wide and alert, all except Evelyn who even today hasn't been able to make eye contact with anyone. "She said 'get off me'." Screamed, more like. He glowers. "You know, this isn't funny. You want to be angry about the Venatori with no hands, be angry about the Venatori but don't forget that she's the one running the Inquisition. If she's angry at mages and Wardens, that's not good for either one of us." She scoffs. "Yeah, right. Laugh. Blow it off the way you always do. You think I haven't seen that before? Men and women waking up screaming in the night, because of the archdemon, darkspawn, the Calling? What the Void is she shrieking about? Venatori? Corypheus? The Wardens? That's funny to you?" He's grateful for the nights he has to keep watch. It spares him the nightmares. It gives him something to focus on outside of the all too welcoming darkness. "Go on, tell another joke, and tell it to Cassandra or Varric tomorrow morning when it's me tonight that wakes up screaming from the Calling, you heartless bitch."

Another short laugh. "Well, that didn't take long. Why don't you throw something in about it being my fault Bethany's dead too— for old times' sake?" She walks a few steps before rearing on him. "Do you think it's been easy for me?" She turns, shrugging. "Of course you do. I keep forgetting I lead a charmed life. Why do I bother asking?"

"Marian." She ignores him and he takes a few more pinched drinks of water, pouting. Maker, how do things always end up this way between them? Their conversations are accusations, competitions in who's lost more and he hates it, himself for knowing it's Marian who's lost more and being bitter about it. He isn't even allowed to complain.  _Like that's ever stopped you._  Why can't he stop being a shit around her?

He takes a whetstone to his blade looking up only when a shadow falls over him. It's not Cassandra or the Inquisitor. Can't have a woman he isn't related to talking to him. The dodgy Warden. How bloody long did it take him to grow that beard?  _Have a shave, man._  "Warden Blackwall. Feeling less shy today?"

He chuckles. "You make me sound like a reserved coquette, waiting to make my move."

"Aren't you?" He can't remember the last time a woman looked at him so shyly. Is he blushing beneath that massive beard?  _You can charm grizzled old men. That's something._ "Not much call for warden recruiters these days."

"Maybe not. But the way I figure with Corypheus running loose, now's a damn fine time to start."

"And you're working with the Inquisition. Funny."

"What's funny about serving a noble cause?"

"Our noble cause is killing darkspawn in the Deep Roads. Wardens aren't to get involved in political disputes." Shouldn't a warden his age know that by now?

"I'd say stopping Thedas from self-destructing goes beyond political disputes." Blackwall frowns at him, as if disappointed.

"Fair enough." Not the wardens' way, but he can't argue that it's  _wrong_. "Where do you recruit?"

"Where ever I go." His heavy eyebrows draw even further down. "Worked so far."

"Where are they?" Blackwall arches his eyebrows. Carver fixates on a nick in his sword, insistent on wearing it down. "Typically you hang on to recruits. Send them somewhere. Where'd they go? Where'd you send them?"

He crosses his arms, shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "Wardens are needed everywhere. I sent them where I thought they'd do the most good."

Carver scowls. The son-of-a-bitch is as evasive as ever. "Grand." He can't wait to get to Adamant. He supposes he should be grateful that  _this_  warden isn't actively hunting him as the others are. Can he blame the Inquisitor for being afraid? "I'm glad we had this talk." Blackwall guards his silence. "What about the archdemon, think it'll make a showing at Adamant?"

"I'd rather not see that bastard again."

"Tell you what, we spot one in Adamant, we whip our dicks out and measure? Whoever wins gets to be the hero and take the archdemon out. Varric can spin a story out of it but I warn you—he exaggerates."

Blackwall laughs, loud and hearty. "Let's hope it's not a cold night." He grins, jovial now. Carver can't help a smile. "I suppose it doesn't matter who takes it down. If I were a betting man, I'd say Cassandra will beat us to it." Carver frowns. "Makes no difference to me. A dead archdemon is a dead archdemon."

Carver's mouth goes dry. He keeps scraping at his sword, tries to keep his thoughts in check. He can't shake it. The thought is like a hammer, slamming into his skull. This man is an imposter. This man is not a warden.

* * *

The sky is a wilted grey color, like a blue garment that's faded after too many washes.

"I don't know if I should say this," Varric mutters as if warding dark spirits, "but does anyone else think it's quiet? A little  _too_  quiet?"

"It was," Carver says, "and now you've gone and ruined it."

Varric chuckles. "Did I ever tell you how much I  _didn't_  miss you, Junior?"

They bicker. Evelyn searches the skies. She's made a game of counting the birds of prey, of trying to determine their class. Sometimes she sketches them in her journal. The drawings are poor, the birds impossible to differentiate but it's something to keep her mind occupied. Now there are no birds. There are no creatures. It  _is_  quiet. Adamant, however, is at long last in view. It looks a bit like a grain of sand amongst the others.

She considers what's before her. Blood magic running rampant. A templar's greatest fear. And now the heroes of Thedas have turned to that darkness. She's killed Redcliffe's mages, the grand enchanter and now she has to go after the Grey Wardens. Will the Inquisition only stop after it's alienated everybody? After there are no more enemies left to fight? How will Thedas regard an Inquisition that has stopped everything that has dared to get in its way? With fear? Disgust?  _Look on the bright side. Maybe **you**  stop at Adamant._

She doubts the Grey Wardens will set their weapons down because she asks. How the Void is she supposed to fight a fortress of Grey Wardens? How, when being near them sets her nerves on fire? She thought she'd gotten braver but it's looking more and more as if she'll always be afraid.

Cassandra comes to stand next to her. They glance nervously at one another, both tight lipped. Cassandra speaks first. "Carver and Hawke have volunteered to take watch tonight."

The mere mention of the apostate irritates her. Evelyn wonders if she'll always be petty and small. "Can they make it through the night unsupervised?"

"They are professionals. If only just barely. However, both have taken watches the previous nights. If you are not opposed, I recommend that we keep watch."

Evelyn's jaw is tighter than she'd like. She tries to keep her voice casual. "All right."

"Really? Very well. I will let them know."

Cassandra leaves her, nearly tripping in the process but not glancing back to see if Evelyn has seen. Her stomach does flips. Is she excited or nauseas? She doesn't have many friends. What if she puts her foot in her mouth and things grow even more distant between them? She doesn't dwell on it. They've found their campsite for the evening and they spend the remainder of the time setting up camp, pitching tents, building a fire. Eventually the others settle for the night.

Cassandra and Evelyn are left before the fire, a suffocating tension between them. Cassandra plays with a thin switch she has found, breaking it in her palm, as if attempting to fold it. She throws little pieces of it into the fire. "I have been thinking a great deal about you, Inquisitor."

Inquisitor. Maker. Have things become so dire between them? "All good things, I'm sure. Flattery  _will_  you get everywhere, Seeker. In-so-far as I'm concerned." Cassandra is silent for a long time. Evelyn flushes. "I didn't actually mean that." She isn't delusional enough to think Cassandra could ever foster those feelings for her. "It was a joke." Even if the only thing she didn't mean was to say it out loud.

"You are fond of your jokes."

"What's been on your mind?" Another long silence passes. Evelyn begins awkwardly. "I'm sorry how I've been behaving towards you. Ungrateful. Childish." Her fingers twine, untangle and then lace again. "I can't seem to let go of what happened in Crestwood, no matter how I try. I know you did everything for me. Everything that you could. I'm sorry if I've made you feel responsible. Guilty. I thought if anyone would find me it'd be you. But when no one came…" She clears her throat. "No one's ever thought I was worth anything. I thought—maybe you thought that too."

"You are worth  _everything._ "

"Only because of this." She lifts her hand, light crackles through her skin. She's reminded once again that there's no one in the whole of Thedas who would fight or die for Evelyn Trevelyan. She swallows her sigh. She doesn't blame them. "All those people on the mountain pass. Flissa. Those poor women in Crestwood. All dead because of me. It's not right."

"Andraste sent you. Andraste  _gave_  you that mark. Don't you believe?"

Evelyn curls her fingers. "And if it was an accident? What if this is only Corypheus' magic, gone wrong?" Cassandra stares at her, openly defiant. "Would you want to know that? Would anyone? Or would everyone regret all those who've been lost? Would everyone think 'the Herald of Andraste is a false prophet'?"

"What are you saying?" Cassandra keeps her gaze on her, taking her arm when there's no response. "Answer me."

"I just want all of this to end. I don't want anyone else dying for me. I'm no Herald. I'm just a person. But it's a crime. It has become a crime to not be extraordinary. I'm not the Hero of Ferelden. I'm not Hawke. I'm not you. I'm a nobody with a magister's Anchor permanently attached to my hand." She pulls away.

"You're lying. You said you didn't remember what happened at the temple of Sacred Ashes."

"I don't. But I haven't forgotten Haven. Do you know I told him to take it? Does hearing that make your guilt go away?" She hopes so. "Maybe I was stalling him. I made a promise. But I don't know. Something that noble. It doesn't sound like me at all." She can't remember the last time she didn't feel tired.

Uncertainty's exhausting. Will Cassandra lash out? Will she throw her to the ground? Will she strike her? She remembers her fury with Varric. But there isn't any this time. Cassandra stands, slapping the sand off her clothing and slipping into the tent they're meant to share. Evelyn keeps her head turned in her direction. She waits but Cassandra doesn't resurface. Maybe she isn't worth Cassandra's anger.

Evelyn looks out into the horizon. Everything is so quiet. So still. So cold.

* * *

The tent flutters violently. Hawke sits up to a sandstorm as the tent is ripped away, hurled into the distance.

She's pulled, dragged through the sand, her temple slamming into a stone, her clothing momentarily on fire before extinguishing just as quickly. What's happening?

A huff.

She pulls herself to her knees. Everything's spinning. Everything's hot. Somebody shouts, the words immediately lost. She faces a wall of scales, claws as long as her arm. Shit, shit, shit, shit, she scrambles back and to her feet. Where's her staff?

The dragon shrieks, piercing her through, burrowing into her skull, leaving her disoriented. She sees the others, shadows in the twilight, hazy, running. A fierce gust of air and flame blasts them with burning light. Hawke lifts her arm, drawing on instinct to put up a barrier, keeping the fire at bay.

No one has their armor. Who was the lookout? How the fuck has this happened? She walks and the dragon jumps, knocking her down with a violent tremor that shakes the ground. The inquisitor is on her feet, staring up at it, still as it cranes its long neck her way, sighting her. It strikes like a dagger. Look out! Hawke is sure she says the words, knows her lips move but there's only ringing in her ears. Her breath leaves her, remembering the last time her ears rung like this.

Blackwall and Carver rush the beast only to be knocked aside by a flick of the dragon's tail. The dragon's mouth opens cavernous, teeth glistening, tongue forked and wet. The Inquisitor doesn't move.

A heavy talon comes down. Hawke can only watch.  _She's going to die._ She takes one step forward. Where's her staff. She flings her arm out. Evelyn budges only a little. Cassandra moves like an extension of Hawke's magic, slamming into Evelyn, knocking her out of the way.

The dragon's talon falls on Cassandra instead, swatting her as if she were an insect. It pulls its talon out, dark. Blood spurts out of the seeker before she crumples to her feet. The Inquisitor stares, horrified.

Evelyn stands and the dragon shrieks. Varric's taken one of its eyes. It advances on them, Blackwall and Carver pulling back, each of them navigating the field, trying to find and slip into the scraps of armor that have been scattered. The campsite looks as if it's been hit by a storm. Meanwhile the only one armed and ready hovers over Cassandra, touching her face as if she were fragile, poison.

Hawke rushes over. Cassandra lives, though just barely. In the puffs of fire Hawke sees her face wan and bloody. Cassandra breathes as if she were drowning. "Where are the potions?" Hawke asks. Evelyn has her hands covering the holes in Cassandra's gut and chest. Blood pumps out between the crevices. "Inquisitor! Where are they?"

"I don't know," she stammers. "Lost. Somewhere."

Useless. "How could you let this happen?" She shakes away her mother's words. "Why did you just stand there? What the Void is the matter with you?"

Evelyn ignores her, breathing raspy apologies to Cassandra. Her eyes are wet. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Why would you do that?" Her tears spill onto Cassandra's face. What does Cassandra see? She looks past them. To the Veil? To the Maker? She looks at Hawke and her voice firms. "Help her. Don't let her die. Don't let her die. Please."

Hawke bites her tongue. A collection of sand is flung over them. Hawke wipes it from Cassandra's face. She takes her hand. It's like ice. "I don't know how to help her." She's always been piss poor at healing. "This is bad, Inquisitor. She won't survive this."

The terror in her eyes mounts. "I don't care what you do. Do whatever it takes." She pulls a knife from her side and gives it to her. Hawke looks at it. She doesn't want it. She's never wanted it. She looks at the Inquisitor and loathes her, loathes the hypocrisy of the templars, loathes templars, period. They're all the same. "Please. She deserves more than this. Why should I live? Why, when she would die?"

"She wouldn't want this."  _And neither do I._  But what would a woman of the Order care for her words?

"She can hate us later," she sniffles, wiping her eyes, " I'll keep it off you."

"Inquisitor—"

"If you let her die, you're next." She picks up her greatsword and goes.

Hawke seethes. With the pressure released from Cassandra's wounds, she bleeds profusely again. Hawke clenches her jaw but cannot steady her heart. "That dragon must have known you're a Pentaghast," she tells her shakily, her smile unsteady. "I'm sorry about this."

She buries the blade in the palm of her hand, forcing it through flesh and bone, screaming, only stopping when it's come out the other side. Maker, it hurts. Her thoughts are fragmented, paralyzed. She casts the dagger aside and cradles an arm beneath Cassandra's head. She sees it in her eyes. The disappointment, the revulsion. "I'll fix this." Cassandra shakes her head. It doesn't matter. "I can fix this." She doesn't know if that's true.

She settles her bleeding palm over Cassandra's heart. A heart like this. Anything is worth preserving it.

* * *

The dragon flies away, leaving the campsite destroyed and its inhabitants broken. The group limps, collecting their items. Blackwall picks up his helmet, half buried in the scalding sand. Carver trudges through the camp, gathering tent pieces. Varric sits with Cassandra in the one tent that miraculously remained standing. She's been in a deep sleep for the past several hours.

Hawke marches up to Evelyn and slaps her.

The blow turns her face to the side, a slash of blood painting her pale and dirtied cheek crimson. "What were you doing?" Hawke asks. "Do you have a deathwish? Cassandra nearly died because of you. You could have gotten us all killed!" She shoves her and Evelyn doesn't react. She shoves her again and Evelyn feints, taking a hold of her arm and slamming her into the ground. Evelyn doesn't let go, she keeps her knee on her back. She pushes her face deeper into the sand.

Carver runs to them, abandoning the tent fragments. "Hey! Get off! Get off her!" Carver takes hold of her waist and drags her off Hawke, though not without difficulty. Evelyn swings her arms, tries to pull away but Carver holds on.

Hawke, on her feet again, sprints towards her. Blackwall seizes her arm. "Oh, no you don't," he throws her to the side as if she were a sack of dirty laundry. "This ends now! I don't give one toss whether you're the Champion of Kirkwall or not. You want to go after the Inquisitor, you'll have to go through me."

"You're defending her?" Hawke demands. Her eyes shine. With lyrium, Blackwall wonders? Or tears? "She's a lunatic! How can you follow someone like that? She's going to get everyone killed! She has no sense!" Evelyn breaks free from Carver and moves after Hawke again. Carver tackles her to the ground.

"Get off me!" Evelyn struggles but Carver keeps her pinned, grabbing hold of her wrists and twisting them back. This incenses her further and she screams, so loud, so anguished that Carver lets her go, stumbles back, visibly disturbed.

Blackwall extends a hand to Evelyn but she ignores it, crawling a few more paces desperately and getting to her feet on her own. "Get away from me!" She sniffles, shakes, looking at the group as if she doesn't recognize them before walking away, moving deeper into the desert. He considers going after her but she's never been a fan and she could use some space.

Blackwall frowns at Hawke. "Mind telling me what your problem with the Inquisitor is?" He approaches her. "If you go after her again, if either of you go after her again—"

"You stay back,  _Warden_ ," Carver steps closer to Hawke, standing between her and Blackwall. Hawke looks at Blackwall, her palm bleeding, the fingers incapable of closing. Blood drip out of her nose and mouth. She looks deranged. They all do.

Blackwall curls his lip, his fist pulled tight. He looks away from them. Maker's breath. What a fine lot of heroes this is.


	16. Nightmare

Sweat drips off her even as a cruel cold makes it difficult to move or think. Evelyn looks around her. What is this place? Everything is hazy. The landscape glistens. She blinks her eyes but nothing changes. Boulders float. Cities float. She recites a small prayer to the Maker, afraid her legs will give out under her. Battling wardens, cutting down pride demons, Corypheus' archdemon and now this. Where the Void has she taken them? What door has she opened? "What is this place?"

"Silly templar," Hawke takes in their surroundings. "I thought you'd have overseen enough Harrowings to know what the Fade is."

"Well, nothing's attacking us yet," Varric glares at the puddle of moldy water that goes halfway up his calves. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"We've never been here physically, Varric," Hawke curls her fingers. "We could be stuck with no way out. Thanks, Inquisitor. Happy to know you have a talent for getting us out of the frying pan and into the fire."

"I suppose I should have let us fall off the fortress."

"Both of you, shut up," Cassandra glowers at the two of them until they withdraw, their gazes like those of resentful, kicked puppies. Cassandra is far paler than she ought to be. Evelyn argued for her to stay with Cullen and their forces at Adamant but she wouldn't hear of it. They're near out of poultices and the seeker's armor hides severe gashes that aren't healed nearly enough. "The last time man physically breached the Fade we created the Blight. It is unnatural to be here. We must stop this bickering and move forward."

"What the grumpy one said," Varric grins at the group. Blackwall's eyes are knitted and somber. Carver looks as surly as ever. "You know, Hawke; I've missed this." He moves forward, the water sloshing over his legs. Hawke and Evelyn exchange another deadly glance before following.  _You'll never get out._ Evelyn doesn't recognize the voice, deep and knowing. There's laughter, dark, above them, around them. Evelyn looks around. The others don't seem to notice. "It's never an adventure unless we're on the brink of death."

"Great. So now we're adventurers."

* * *

Skyhold burns.

Is it smoke or tears that make her eyes water? This again. Not this again. The Red Templars march into Skyhold, along with a handful of Venatori. Josephine spots a woman with them, a staff in hand, along with an older male templar. Screams tear through the castle.

"Move, you!" Sera's wrapped her hand around Josephine's wrist and dragged her up the stairs of the tavern and to the ramparts. It worked until the point Josephine got outside, saw the carnage. Now she's frozen. Josephine looks to Sera, at a loss. "We stand still, the baddies find us and put their pointy ends on our insides. So why not we put you somewhere so I can go help the others?" She grimaces. "You're important, yeah? So we have to hide you. But we've got to hurry so the little people don't end up with their insides out. Can you fight?"

"What?" Is the question serious? "No. No!" The elf has always irritated her and now she's afraid that Sera will do what she has always wanted her to do—leave her alone. Sera pulls out a dagger, sheathed in her boot and hands it to her. Josephine takes it, habit from her duties of ambassador when a gift is presented. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Know you like your words. Nice, they are. But not here. You can't talk your way out of this." She nods at a chamber to the left further down along the ramparts. "Room there. Complete shite, so no one goes. Go through the wardrobe." She grins. "Good for spying and pranks. It'll drop you into the Herald's room. Didn't want to give it up or share but it's a good reason, this. Maybe you can get to Shadows of Birds…?"

"Sera—" Josephine nearly trips over her own feet lunging after to take her hand. Sera stops. "Please don't leave me. I'm afraid." Evelyn isn't here. Evelyn who has saved her every other time isn't here. Blackwall isn't here. Cullen isn't here. A large majority of their soldiers are gone. They are defenseless. She is no different from the citizens of Skyhold, excepting her pampered lifestyle, her crippling inability to stand against the cruelties of life.

Sera yanks her hand away, whips back and nocks an arrow, loosing it so swiftly that Josephine hears a whistle scream past her ear. She turns. A templar lies on his back twitching. His arms glow red. The lyrium seems to grow out of his armor. How…? An arrow sticks out of his eye. "You hear that?" Sera whispers. "That song…?" She goes to him but Josephine takes her arm, preventing her from going further, calling her name to get her attention. Sera stops, shakes her head. "Andraste. All right. I'll go with –" she staggers back, an arrow tearing through her side. She's not in any armor. Josephine sees the fabric rip, the blood begin to flow. The arrow must have come from below. She looks over the ramparts and Sera drags her down. "Fucking shite! Cover, lady prissy pants! Move your arse."

"Are you—"

"I'm fine," she grunts and pushes her.

Josephine moves, half walking, half crawling, keeping cover. Is this how she's going to die? On her hands and knees? How undignified. She glances back, over and over, reassured each time that Sera's there. If she gets her out of this…  _When she gets us out of this._  Her stomach churns. What if this is the end of the Inquisition…?

What will they do if the Inquisitor returns to an empty castle, their people butchered? She can imagine no greater nightmare.

* * *

_Ah. We have a visitor. Some silly little girl has come to retrieve the fear I kindly lifted off her shoulders. You should have left the fear where I left it, forgotten._

She can't stop shivering. She downs another small vial of lyrium, letting it warm and fill her, hearing the chant of light swelling within. It fills where she's empty, easing between the cracks and crevices to make her whole. It's better. This is better. She looks around her, paranoid. Demons at every step. A nightmare demon taunting her. And… the Divine?

"Do you think it's her?" Evelyn asks Cassandra.

"I do not know." She has spoken only when spoken to and to Evelyn only in clipped words, to Hawke, not at all.

"It's obviously a demon pretending to be her," Hawke tells Evelyn. "You of all people should know the dangers of the Fade, the tricks it will play on your mind. Or is all that templar bullshit you spout just that? Bullshit."

Evelyn grinds her teeth. Leave it to an apostate to make a mockery of the chantry's word. "But she seems to be helping us. It. Whatever it is."

"That's what it wants you to think."

"Maker, will the two of you stop?" Carver grouses. "I'm sick of it. Go on and recover your memories. Or what the Void was the point of fighting those shades? Maker, I can't get the taste out of my mouth," he spits, wiping a hand across his mouth and leaving a brown smear.

_Careful, careful, Lady Trevelyan. Before you take my master's mark and set it to recovering your memories, think of what you are forsaking. The bliss of ignorance. Think of the fear that holds you now. You barely function as it is, unable to recover from the fear you hold of Venatori and Grey Wardens. Your people know it. They wonder even now if you can lead them from this place. They despair that you are their so-called savior._

"Don't listen to it, kid," Varric grumbles, "this Nightmare wouldn't be trying to scare you away if you weren't taking something from him."

Evelyn's fingers tremble, her hand crackling with green light. Maker. It's right. That thing is right. How the Void is she supposed to do this? Stop this? She's barely keeping it together as it is. What happened at the Conclave? Does she want to know? Should she want to know? What if this is a mistake?

_It is. Like you. It's what your father always thought. Your brothers. A mistake that your mother died for. They are sorry that you survive. And yet it is you that always survives when others, far worthier, perish._

The gaze of her companions is on her. Her fingers clench shut.  _That's right. Let it go. Allow me to give you this kindness. Walk away._ "I can't do this."

Hawke swears.

"Well…" Blackwall clears his throat. "I suppose we don't need to know. It's done. We can press forward…"

_Yes. Press forward. Forget the past. Bury it. You are fond of that, are you not, Warden?_

He blanches.

"No. We did not fall into this Fade for you to give ground to this  _thing_ ," Cassandra marches to her. Evelyn stares back, though she can't meet her eyes for long without turning away. What is there to look at? Everyone's disappointed. Again. She's letting everyone down. Again. "You  _will_  do this. You have no choice."

"I don't want to." Should she beg?

_Beg._ This time, only she hears the word.

"And what happened," she hisses so only Evelyn can hear, "did you think I wanted it? Do you think I do not know what you commanded?" She takes Evelyn's hand viciously, covering it and pointing it at the memory. Her hand crackles, burns, on fire, drawing her in. Her mind goes blank, excruciating pain seizing her, before the memories flood in, the Divine screaming, the Warden's holding her captive, a blood ritual for Corypheus.  _Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice._  She wants to pull away but Cassandra holds her firm until everything is unraveled, until that version of her in the memory picks up the orb and there's an explosion, until everything goes black.

* * *

Josephine steps over Minaeve's body, rushing after Sera. Maker. That poor woman. Suffered so much and thought she was safe in Skyhold, only to be killed by red templars. What was the purpose of the alliance if this is what's come of it? She's just past the door to her office when she's grabbed. She tries to cry out but her mouth is covered, scream muffled. She moves on instinct and bites down hard on the gloved hand.

"Stop. That." Leliana's voice soft against her ear. Josephine melts, turning to look at her. Her face is bruised, lips bloodied but she's smiling. "I'm glad you're safe." She releases her, moving ahead to where Sera inspects a number of templar bodies. Leliana flexes her hand, looking down at her gloved palm. "Are you so rough with the Inquisitor, Josie?"

Josephine flushes up to her ears. "Now is not the time for jokes, Leliana."

"Can't imagine Lady Prissy Pants liking it rough," Sera comments. This cannot be happening. "Nice shots, Shadows of Birds," Sera yanks an arrow free and throws it at Leliana who catches it, seamlessly easing it back into her quiver. "Lots of templars and robes here," she winces. "Do you think this is it?" she grins before her face nearly crumbles.

"We are not overrun," Leliana moves to the corridor of the War Room, looking out into the night. Aren't they? "I've only had a glance of that woman but judging by her description she sounds like the Calpernia that took the Inquisitor captive. And that templar—I recognize him. Samson, from Kirkwall. The Order ejected him and the last I'd heard he was a beggar on the street. It's hard to imagine why Corypheus would enlist him."

"Does it matter why?" Sera asks. "And why are we standing around talking? We need to be out there, helping."

"Where are King Alistair and Queen Anora?" Josephine asks. That is most important. What a terrible time for all of this to happen, when they have the nobility of Ferelden and the sovereignty of the Free Marches here. "I cannot overstate how imperative it is that we keep them safe. Can you imagine the repercussions if something were to happen to them while they are here?" No doubt word would spread that the Inquisition lured them to the castle only to remove any dissenters.

Leliana's face is impassive. "What matters is protecting the people of Skyhold. The King and Queen have a guard. Hopefully they're worth all the coin they've sunk into them."

"They are not trained to fight such madness."

"Perhaps fortune has smiled on us. If we safeguard the people of Skyhold they can vouch that we did everything possible to keep the Fereldan royalty safe."  _Even if_ , she seems to say,  _we in fact, did not._

Josephine shakes her head. "You cannot be serious."

"No? You heard them earlier, Josie. They are as much a threat to the Inquisition as these templars and mages who have breached our walls. Perhaps it will not be them today, but tomorrow or the day after that. They want us disbanded. We could stop them but it would not be without cost. We could lose everything."

"You wish to speak of costs? You speak of the grey warden who stopped the Blight,  _with you_ , Leliana, and a queen who is loved by the whole of Ferelden."

"You forget how fickle people are. That was over ten years ago.  _We_  are the ones who keep them safe.  _We_  are the ones who are adored."

"For now."

"Ugh," Sera growls, "this is too much talking. I'm with prissy pants. Hero of Ferelden. Was that the king? Forget. Worth saving, him. And Anora, yeah? Easy on the eyes. But I'm not standing around while you two talky types figure it out. People,  _little people_  are dying. You'll keep her safe, Shadows of Birds." Leliana issues a small nod. "Right. Then I'm out to help."

She rushes away before Josephine can call her back, thank her, insist she stay. She isn't sure how safe she feels with Leliana at her side. Sera isn't gone seconds when the door to the room bursts open and Alistair and Anora enter, both donned in armor. Josephine goes to them. "You're safe."

Though how safe she cannot say. There is a dot of blood on Anora's cheek. Alistair's armor and sword are stained red. "Mages and templars working together to destroy us all," he says. "Why, it's almost touching, isn't it?"

Josephine always hoped that templars and mages would find a way to work together. Now that they have she wishes they'd remained at odds. "Where are the Viscount and Arl Teagan?"

"They're with the battalion of soldiers we brought," Anora draws the longsword from her side. "Now we can stand around here talking or we can help the little forces you have stop this."

"So now they're little forces," Leliana says with a smile.

They snipe at each other even now. Josephine wishes she were surprised. "While I appreciate your offer to assist, your majesty, I am afraid that the Inquisition cannot allow you to enter into this fray. It is much too dangerous."

"You seem to think you have any choice in the matter. We will not hide away while our people are cut down," Anora looks to Alistair. "Let's show them that their king and queen of Ferelden still fight for the protection of those who are in desperate need."

Alistair chuckles. "Why, Anora, I haven't seen you this excited in years."

Leliana exchanges a glance with Josephine. Her eyes are bright and dancing. She once told her of how shy Alistair was, how she'd hoped for Anora's sake, that he'd grown into some kind of sexual prowess. "If our guests want to fight, I say we let them. We could use all the help we can get. After you," she bows to them both and follows, the light fading from her eyes the moment their back is turned.

Josephine follows after them. Is she the only one who has not got entirely mad?

* * *

Memories are transparent here, everything that happened at the Conclave revealed for all to bear witness. There's no feeling in her legs. No strength in them. She drops to one knee, murky water finding its way into her armor and beneath to chill her. Varric claps a hand to her shoulder but she can't shake the dizziness and nausea.

Did she blow up the Conclave? Did she set that orb off by touching it? Is all of this her fault? And the Grey Wardens. They took the Divine. They made her into a blood sacrifice for Corypheus. They did that. They tried. Maker. Divine Justinia died for her.  _She_  died for  _her_. Evelyn retches into the water. Bile floats around her as Varric makes a face and pulls back. She mutters an apology to him and wipes at her mouth. They watch her, their disgust barely contained.

_Are you happy now, Inquisitor? Do you think you've won? You're a coward. You've always been a coward. You will run away in the night once more and this time Josephine won't be there to stop you._  Evelyn gets to her feet, sees how the others look around. They're listening. They know.  _She'll find someone else. Someone worthy. And you'll be left abandoned, just as Hawke was._

"Oh, that's just grand. Bloody leave me out of it, will you?"

The voice chuckles.  _Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Do you think anything you did ever mattered? You couldn't even save your city. How can you expect to strike down a god? You're a failure. You've turned to what you've condemned and revile to save a woman who is ungrateful. You always save the ones that don't matter. Carver is going to die. Just like your family and everyone you ever cared about. Maybe you'll be the one to do it. The years have driven you mad. You're no different than Anders. Deep down, you feel his actions were justified. Retribution for years of abuse from the templars and a chantry unwilling to aid the mages._

"Don't listen to it," Varric says. "Nice pun, though."

_The chatty dwarf with the heart of gold. My master and I thank you. If you hadn't led Hawke to those ruins, He would have remained trapped and kept from His true purpose. Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you. I think I'll keep her here, dwarf. Hawke and the last of her family. Their blood will be on your hands. All because you put your faith in the Inquisitor. Pathetic._

"No one is going to die here," Evelyn pushes forward, unable to take the words any longer. Her voice chatters. They move behind her, the sloshing of the water the only thing to be heard. She isn't sure if she'd prefer demons, the ones she can fight. Those that haunt her, that haunt her companions. Can they be vanquished?

_Do you think Cassandra will save you, Inquisitor? She couldn't save the Divine. She couldn't save Regalyan. The Inquisition will fail. And the name Cassandra Pentaghast will be synonymous with betrayer. Deserter. Failure. Heretic. Look at the women you have raised up, Seeker. Evelyn Trevelyan, a noble woman afraid of her own shadow and Marian Hawke, a woman no different than the men and women who beheaded your brother._

"That is enough," Cassandra growls. "We must find this thing and end it. I will not allow it to twist our thoughts further."

"Nothing about me?" Carver asks, wiping at his bleeding brow. "Think I can't handle it?" He is returned with silence. "Am I not worth even a jab? To the Void with you, demon. I'm going to enjoy ripping you open." He looks around him, wildly. "Nothing?"

"Leave it alone, Carver," Hawke keeps close to him, keeping guard.

Blackwall catches up to Evelyn. The exhaustion makes it impossible to pull away from him. "I know I'm not what everyone wants or deserves," Evelyn spits.

"You're working to better yourself, my lady. We can do no more."

"The Wardens killed the Divine." She searches for something to strike with. Why is  _he_  the one approaching her, not completely appalled? His brow knits like a crumpled rag. "Or I did. Or…" she doesn't know. "Maker, I don't understand any of this. Are you feeling the Calling?" he shakes his head. "Are you sure?"

"I suppose swearing on the Order wouldn't reassure you. All I can promise is that I am not feeling this… Calling. I'm here for you, Inquisitor. I won't waiver from our path."

"All right." She dares a look back at the group, dispirited and trudging along. "If something happens to me—"

"You can't speak that way. You can't allow yourself to even think it or you'll be doing the work of this Nightmare for him. The people have rallied to you, Inquisitor. They trust you. _I_  trust you. Where ever you lead us—I'll follow. You've kept us alive this far."

But they've still a ways to go. She swallows the words. "Right. Fine. We'll get out of here. All of us. Let's move."

* * *

They were separated from Anora and Leliana and have suffered for it.

He slumps against the wall, bleeding. Josephine presses her hand tightly to his stomach but her touch does little to contain the blood spilling out of him. The armor makes it difficult. Alistair looks around him in a daze, pale and sweaty, the odor of perspiration and rust mingling in the air. Josephine goes icy. Alistair Therein cannot die here. Not at Skyhold. Not while in their care.  _This is a hero's life. This is the man that stopped the Blight._  She wonders if she's lost the ability to think of matters without considering the political ramifications.

"Well, I suppose this doesn't look so good for your Inquisition does it?" He grins, a grimace, grunting as he slides to a sitting on the wall. A mage is to the side, his head half severed. The templar who got Alistair lies beside him, in chunks, a gift from one of Dagna's contraptions. She's run for help. Maybe she still lives. Josephine still doesn't know how they all got separated. It happened so quickly.

"We must move," she whispers to him. "Staying here is suicide."

"Maker, do you hear that?" Hear what? Screams? In the distance? Shouts and clanging swords? The roar of fire? Yes, she hears that. "It's like a song. It's calling. Get it? The Calling." He chuckles. "Oh, shit."

She wraps an arm around his waist. They must, at the very least, get into the storage room to hide. They cannot stay out, exposed. But what if Dagna returns? What if she doesn't get to them? What if the king of Ferelden dies in Skyhold? She lifts, trying to stand. He's heavy and he resists. "Please, King Alistair. We cannot remain."

Another grunt and he gets to his feet, leaning more heavily into her than he intends to, by the look on his face. They move slowly, Josephine feeling as if she were dragging a too heavy bag of sand. Finally they make it to the wooden door. She pushes it open, biting back a gasp when she sees an elven servant, bloody faced, a knife in hand. How strange that this woman has survived, after what appears to be some confrontation. "It's all right," Josephine says. The space is small but the elf scoots to the side, allowing the two of them to enter. Josephine settles him against the bags of grain. He groans, a hand to his belly. She hopes Anora, Teagan and the others are all right.

"No, no, no, I can't stay here. Teagan is out there. Maker, Anora is out there."

So he does care about her. Josephine puts a hand to his belly again. His life is spilling out of him. Her hands are hot with king's blood. "Take off your armor."

"Why, ambassador, I'm flattered but I don't know if this is the time or the place."

The elven servant looks at them. Josephine frowns. Mercifully, Evelyn's armor has given her some indication of how to remove these things. Why is armor so fragile? It wasn't intended to withstand the ferocity of these creatures' blows. "We need to stop the blood flow." This is a killing blow.  _No, it isn't. He will not die._

He shakes his head. "You forget I'm a former warden. This is nothing." He winces. Josephine mutters a small apology and begins to undo the latches. Her cheeks grow warm. What would her mother think of her, undressing the king of Ferelden in a closet with an elven maid? The Orlesian court would be delighted. So would Yvette. "I have to get back out there. Can you imagine if this got out? Skyhold sacked while King Alistair hides in a stock room with the ambassador and an elf?"

"Would it be so different from any of the other tales told about you?" the elf asks.

Josephine glares at her, even if Alistair laughs. She pulls his chest piece away. His shift is soaked in sweat and blood. His wound bleeds profusely. "Please, your highness—" but he is stubborn and she knows he won't hear of staying. Well. She will be damned if she allows him to go out on his own. She takes a breath. She still holds that dagger Sera gave her. Maker. She hopes she does not have to use it.  _Likely you will be cut down before you are given the chance to strike._  Should she be reassured? Better she be cut down than live and have outside parties think she simply abandoned the King of Ferelden. "If we are going to move, I suggest we do so quickly." She looks at the elven woman. "You, help me."

The elf sighs and gets to her feet. "I suppose I have no choice in the matter. What else is new?"

Alistair wraps an arm around the smaller woman's shoulders. "Having the king of Ferelden be in your debt is something to aspire to. Just think of all the things you could get out of me."

Josephine's counting on it. "What things you say, your majesty." Her fingers slip into his wound and she tries not to retch. They move slowly, her legs tiring, the king resting against her, his head bowed. They walk until he's dragging his feet. Eventually they bow under his weight and he collapses to the ground. "Find a poultice," she instructs the elf, "and thread."

A thinning of the woman's lips and then she goes. Where is Dagna? Has she just killed the king? He breathes unevenly on the floor, chuckling. "You know, Anora's going to think you all rigged this up to take us out," he coughs and Josephine watches the red and black seep out of the corner of his mouth. She stares at it for she doesn't know how long. The elf returns with the necessary items and only then does Josephine realize that the woman might not have returned at all. Josephine doesn't look at the potion, only pours a little into his mouth. He makes a face. She feels his heartbeat through the injury, slowing by the second. "Do you have children, ambassador? Want them?"

"I do not have children. I would very much like a family one day."

"Me too. Wardens can't. Not really. Unless there's magic involved. I had a sister. She wanted no part of me. Heard some sickness took a hold of her. She's gone now."

"Why do you speak of family now?"

"I don't know." His eyes squint as if searching for some hazy future, combing through old memories. "If something happens to me, who'll get the crown? They'll try to oust Anora."

Josephine threads the needle. "With all due respect, I must insist you cease this talk. You are a warden. You will survive."

He nods feebly. "If I don't make it, that's the one good thing. No children left behind to miss a father."

Josephine plunges the needle into his skin but there's too much blood. It's impossible to see anything. She's never dealt with anything so severe. What is she thinking? She does not have the talent for this. This is obscene. Futile. They are out in the open. If anyone comes, they will die. He doesn't seem to notice the needle.

"Anora never could. Have children. Or maybe it was me. Never could with Cailan. And I'm sure I don't help things. They blame her. She's not too awful, as it turns out. She's funny. Funnier than you'd expect. Smart. If I don't make it, things will be fine. She'll carry Ferelden through. I never wanted this marriage. There was someone special to me. I loved her very much but … it wasn't practical. I thought I'd regret doing my duty but now I'm not so sure. I won't miss the political bullshit." He turns his head as if to listen.

Josephine stitches, as if to keep her thoughts coherent, as if to keep everything from falling apart. "You and Anora will continue to rule Ferelden." They already have to worry about the matter with Empress Celene. Losing the rulers of Ferelden would make things worse. She threads, listening to him wheeze. When she hears a noise, she turns, lifting the dagger Sera gave her and burying it deep into the leg of the intruder. Instinct. Horror makes her numb. Her eyes drift up. Iron Bull. He flares his nostrils, pulling out the dagger as if it were only a splinter. Leliana, Dorian and Dagna are with him. They're all covered in blood.

"Sorry, I moved as fast as I could," Dagna says. "Dorian can help with the healing."

Josephine nods, gratefully. Leliana is serious. Blood is always so bright against her face. Josephine can scarcely hear herself. "Where is Anora?"

Leliana sighs. A tired sigh? Wistful sigh? Irritated sigh? "She didn't make it, I'm afraid."

Josephine blinks, looking back to Alistair who has gone still and cold.

* * *

Nightmare looms.

It blocks the skies, replacing them with its massive body and monstrous appendages. Venom drips from its fangs. Evelyn measures them. Several of her. They thought Nightmare gone but it was only a fragment. This here… She has to get them out. If she doesn't, she's a failure. If she doesn't, this thing and the wardens and Corypheus have won. They're waiting for her to fail. They expect it now. She can't keep letting them see it.

"I have the Anchor," she tells the group. "I'll distract it and follow after."

The exit is not very far. Just past the foul creature.

"Don't be stupid," Hawke's fingers curl around her staff. "Thedas needs that hand of yours. I don't imagine it works if it's not attached. This is my mess." Her smile is icy. "This thing is beyond your capabilities. Leave it to the professional."

"You must make a decision," Cassandra, wilted and pale, looks at Evelyn, "preferably before that thing stops giving us the courtesy to make it."

"There's no decision to make," Hawke snaps. "Do you really think I'll let my brother die here?"

"Sure, keep pretending I'm some brat that needs taking care of," Carver narrows his eyes. "You were right, for once. This is the Wardens mess. So I'll bloody take care of it."

The spider moves and they all step back. The shadow is so grand it makes them colder. It's like a thief of light. Evelyn stares at its all-seeing eyes. Sneaking past it. They've all fucking gone mad if that's their best plan.

"Will you bloody stop fighting me on everything?" Hawke shouts at Carver. "It was  _my_  blood that set Corypheus loose on the world. Mother asked that I take care of you. I won't break that promise." She smiles. "Don't pretend you haven't dreamed of a moment when I was out of your hair."

"No." Varric says. His face is dark. "I am not going to give this bastard the satisfaction of being right." He charges towards the beast, blasting off a bolt, his coat billowing in the breeze. He ignores their shouts. Hawke starts after him but Carver takes hold of her, keeping her back. "You don't get to keep Hawke! You don't even get to keep Junior, you dick!" Varric fires another shot off. He's laughing. "Like that? There's more where that came from! Bianca and I can go all night long!"

Thick green goo pours out of the demon. It lifts on its hind legs, splashing them with water. Its focus is off them. It turns its attention to Varric, pounding its appendages into the ground trying to crush him. Rocks and boulders crumble around them. For a moment they all watch, stunned. Varric's occupied the spider.

Evelyn swallows thickly. Flissa. The Divine. The countless others, the nameless. Those who died in the blast at the Conclave. Too many have died for her. The air is thin in her lungs. Everything spins. Will she ever be able to stop this from happening, over and over again? She gets a hold of her senses, enough to act decisively, enough to abandon him. "Everybody run. Now."

They hurl themselves across the jagged territory, leaping and lashing out at the smaller demons that chase after them. One by one they throw themselves through the portal. She has the Anchor. She can seal the skies and she can rip them open. She can open any door that she wants, into any world she wants. She can walk into the Heavens themselves. She'll wait. She'll wait until they're through and then… together—

Varric falls.

Time slows. A storm of water and dirt sweep over her like a tide. Her heart pounds fiercely. Where is he? The violent pain bleeds into her arm again. She can take the ground out from under that thing. Bury it deep within the Fade. She stretches her hand out, starting to tear another hole in the hazy wastes stretched out before her. The blueprint is there… She sees it. She can't see him but she can save him. The spider rears on her— Her arm is grabbed, twisted behind her. She's yanked back, feels the tingly cold of the portal envelop her.

No. Varric.

She slams into the stone ground of Adamant. For an instant everything is white, hot pain. Wardens murmur around her. Her arms are held. A knee to the small of her back. They stand in a circle around her. She can recognize them by their boots.

Her cheek is cold and uncomfortable, throbbing. The terror is different now. Sharp. Exhausting. She sighs a little. Her left hand burns, radiating to the rest of her. She focuses on the mind numbing pain. It should hurt. She's whispering but can't get a hold of what words she says.

"You can't help him," Blackwall says. "Your place is here. Don't try that again." He releases her.

Evelyn gets to her feet. Wardens everywhere.

They're all there. Blackwall. Carver. Cassandra. Hawke with clear lines running down her smudged face, the emotion in her eyes hollowed. Evelyn searches the crowd, scans the air for seams but there are none. No. This thing on her hand is a key. It's a knife. She has to find where it parts. She has to find where she can latch; they're there, they have to be, those cracks in the world, those stitches. What if she finds them and rips them open? Would she find him? Would she tear this world apart? Would she use this Anchor the way it was intended?

* * *

It's been snowing for days.

A collection of bodies are stacked in the courtyard, wrapped in sheets, ready to be burned.

Calpernia and the templar Samson retreated. They must have known Skyhold's military was gone and brought a small force, one that was more than capable of taking Skyhold had the Fereldan forces not been there to aid their fight. Despite that they lost too many. Their names are still being gathered.

Arl Teagan and Viscount Bran have left, taking the bodies of their dead. A king. A queen. A lover. Servants. The sky is ashy, making it impossible for the sun to push through. Cullen and their forces returned only the previous day and the man has been barking orders and tightening security since. He looks unkempt, even glassier eyed than usual.

Josephine has kept clear of her office where blood once again stains the stone and elaborate tapestries. She's retreated to her room, spending time in the darkness, the fireplace as her only companion. She writes letters in a fugue.  _The Inquisition wishes to express its deepest sympathies for the tragedy that occurred at Skyhold. Now, more than ever, we must band together against the force that would take the king and queen of Ferelden from us…_  She has written letters to allies. She has asked for coin and soldiers. She has not slept.

From time to time she looks at her hands, expecting the heat of blood upon them but there is only that scar from Evelyn's bite. Thoughts drift in and out of her head, like snow flurries. Who was that elven servant? She doesn't recall ever seeing her. Where has she gone? No one can find her. How did Anora die? Leliana has been so kind to her. Is she wrong to doubt her…?  _Yes._

The Inquisition has been a far bloodier affair than she anticipated. Once she watched a man die to spare Evelyn and now she has a thrust a blade into one of their own. What was she thinking? Nothing. She moved instinctively. When all civility is stripped away and people are reduced to their most basic… She sighs. What else will she compromise? Will this Inquisition take everything she believes in, in order to reassure the world of their worth?

She writes for a time longer until hearing the slip of a letter beneath her door. She goes to it and reads the short message:  _The Inquisitor has returned to Skyhold._ Josephine closes her eyes and takes a breath. Thank the Maker. The news is a welcome distraction. Try as she does to focus on the task at hand, she finds it impossible. She sits at the desk, quill in hand, unable to formulate a proper sentence.

Darkness falls but the Inquisitor does not present herself. Anxious, Josephine goes to her. Skyhold crackles with nervous, tense energy. The guards glance at her before their skittish glances go elsewhere. They lost a great many men and women during the attack. Many of the civilians were spared but their soldiers… Josephine twines her hands, moving up to Evelyn's bedroom. She takes the stairs swiftly.

The Inquisitor turns her head at her approach and Josephine is stopped in her tracks. Evelyn's chest plate lies on the floor, dented and reeking like some carcass. Her shift is stained with dried blood. Josephine thinks of Alastair and her throat constricts painfully.  _Put it out of your mind. You must, for at least one moment._  Evelyn holds a letter in her hand. Her face is sharp. Her eyes are haunted. Why hadn't she come straight to her, Josephine wonders.

Evelyn blinks, speaks as if in a daze. "I was briefed on…" Where does she look? Somewhere not here, somewhere past her. Odd, how such things can feel like slivers slipping into her. "I wanted to see you straight away. But I thought…" she looks down at herself. There's blood on her face and neck. Her face is bruised. "I wanted to wash up first. I thought you'd like that."

Josephine might normally agree. It is a surprise to her, as much as it is to the Inquisitor, that she crosses the distance between them to wrap her in a fierce embrace. Oh, yes, she stinks. But she lives. And it is not the smell of death that clings to her. She has learned that foul stench all too well. She lifts her face up, stealing a kiss that tastes of sweat, tears and blood, qualities of the living. She doesn't withdraw immediately. Evelyn returns the kiss with surprising ardor before pulling away with an apology. "It does my heart good to see you returned to us safely."

"I should have returned sooner."

Oh. She blames herself. The lump in Josephine's throat tightens. She looks aside. "You have drawn yourself a bath." She moves to the clawfoot tub and touches the water. Hot and welcoming on this chilly evening. "I could leave you to your privacy. We might speak at…"

"No. Stay." Evelyn goes to her and hands her the letter. "This arrived from your family. Don't worry—I've confirmed that they're safe. Maybe it's only gossip. Think they've heard about us?"

Evelyn smiles but it only makes her seem sadder. Maybe Josephine only thinks so because she has gone out of her way to not speak of her involvement with the Inquisitor. "Yvette does like her gossip." Josephine takes the letter. "How thoughtful of you to check on them. Thank you."

Her smile is realer this time. "Now will you turn around so I can retain my honor or do you intend to watch me strip?"

Josephine's face warms. "Are you not the one who asked that I remain? I did not think you so bashful." Haven't they already seen one another naked, after all? She smiles, rising from the edge of the tub and opening the letter. "I will you give privacy you require, Lady Trevelyan." Josephine anticipates a snappy response but doesn't get it. She cracks the wax seal on the letter and glances inside.  _Dearest Josephine, it is with great excitement…_  A splashing of water. Josephine looks at her. "Should I be offended that you have not provided a lecherous invitation to join you?"

What nonsense she speaks. And yet her paramour is back after weeks. They've both suffered harrowing experiences. What is a little diversion? Should she remain somber? Can she not have a small pretense of being carefree?

"If I thought the lady so brave as to slip into a tub of what will soon be filthy water, I would extend such an invitation. But I do not believe you so brave."

Josephine glances at her. Instead of the impish delight she expects to see, she finds a grimace, the same she usually gets when she's misspoken. She could speak to the Herald of her courage. At a later time, perhaps. They have nearly shared a tub before. She does not know if this situation is better or worse. "I should like to be daring. What if you grow bored with me?" Evelyn looks up. Josephine sets the letter aside. It is not immediately urgent, she supposes. "Is this not the part where you protest that you could never grow bored with me?"

She laughs. "My apologies. Why, I could never,  _ever_  grow bored of you, Lady Montilyet." She smirks. It is frightfully becoming. "You've turned me into one of your puppet nobles, mimicking like a parrot everything that you say."

"You do have a tendency to be uncouth." Should they speak of what's happened? But why, when it's the two of them. This room is meant to be safe. Hadn't she said that once? No politics. No work. Not here. They can have that for a small time, can't they? It isn't selfish. "You should be grateful for my diligent efforts."

"I'd be more grateful if you joined me." Ah. The bravado. Her eyes aren't quite on her, her smile lacking the confidence it sometimes holds. She has not yet read the reports of Adamant yet. Perhaps she should have done so before visiting. Perhaps there might have been some way to assuage her troubles. No. She can help in other ways. "Should I close my eyes while you dispense of your fine garments?"

"That is not necessary." She removes her dress with trembling fingers, nervous again. Evelyn doesn't take her eyes off her, cheeks growing rosy as she disrobes. Though she'd been cold before, Josephine cannot remember any of it anymore. She slips into the tub, kneeling between Evelyn's legs, unsure of how to position herself, despite the impressive size of the tub. "Did you demand  _this_  particular tub for company?"

"You outfitted this room. I could ask you the same."

Josephine smiles, grabbing a cloth draped over the side of the tub and carefully wiping the blood from her face and chest. One side of her face is bruised, her lip harbors a red line, a small cut. "I never harbored any delusions that  _you_  might care for such a laced up bureaucrat." She's still as Evelyn drips water along her arms and back. She bites her tongue, feeling a trail trace down over her breasts.

"I can't say I ever expected you." A beat. "Josephine." Such desperation. "I think. I think you're more than 'fine'." What antics. What odd passion. Why do her eyes glisten like that? "I'm… so glad you're all right. If I'd returned and something had happened—I don't know—"

She can't say 'nothing happened'. So much happened. "I am here, as are you. We are together. What happens now… What's to come… we will weather it together." She presses her forehead to Evelyn's. Evelyn nods, closing her eyes, breathing a prayer that Josephine can't make out. "I thought of you often in your absence. Evelyn… I. I…" Their lips brush, the contact making her forget herself. Josephine closes her eyes, enjoying her touch and kisses, feather light and careful, as if only imagined, as if only dreamed. She says the words without thinking.

Evelyn ceases her affections immediately and Josephine curses her inability to keep her mouth shut, to have said the words that would stop  _this_. "Ah." She stares at the edge of the tub, at Evelyn's shoulder, scratched and inflamed. "Forgive me. It was not my intention to say such a thing. Not without provocation. I—ah… not that you—do not have the talents to provoke such things. Certainly I love what you do." No. That isn't what she meant. Fix it. "But not only that." She winces, swears softly in Antivan. "I'm not helping things, am I?"

"Why did you say that?" How suspicious she sounds, how breathless she looks, how shocked, as if she were under attack.

"It was said in the heat of the moment." Why can't she read her eyes? Is this how these conversations are supposed to go? She always imagined the other party's eyes would light up and they would enthusiastically say the words in return, they would embrace fiercely and… what? An engagement? Marriage? Her stomach clenches. Her head feels hot.

"Did you mean it?"

Her shoulders slump and the water that had seemed cool before she comes to realize is scalding. "Yes." She swallows. No, that is  _not_  what she should have said.  _Even if you mean it?_  "I—am sorry. If you wish to forget it—"

"No." Evelyn touches her shoulders, her waist, her hands resting on her thighs before reaching up to cradle her face. So much of the light that has left her over the past months resurfaces. "I could never wish such a thing. And I…" her gaze flickers. "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten what we are. What we aren't."

What they can have, what they cannot. It appears neither has forgotten, not for longer than an instant. Josephine smiles nervously, happy to kiss her and have the conversation ended, happy to be pressed to her, happy to make love to her and forget so much sadness and loss, if only for an evening. What is this, she wonders. She's seen such vignettes at court. At the opera. Nobles playing at love. Is this more of the same? Is this what it is to be swept away by passion? Should it be so thrilling? So delightful? So fun? Maybe it doesn't matter what it is. All she knows is that she never wants it to end.


	17. Arrangements

The numb only leaves Evelyn when Josephine's near. A pity, then, that the ambassador has been relatively absent. Evelyn spends the days walking the grounds, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering. She acknowledges those who have gone, astounded in equal part by those she knew and those she didn't. Men and women who gave their lives for the Inquisition without her knowing their name. If Varric were here, he would find the right thing to say. Somehow, he'd find a way to make them laugh at the situation.

What isn't there to laugh about? She's found out the Divine died to save her and it was her contact with Corypheus' orb that possibly blew up the Conclave. The Grey Wardens have been exiled and Carver's gone to Weisshaupt. Blackwall and Hawke, her two favorite individuals, have remained with the Inquisition. Cassandra hates her, the King and Queen of Ferelden were lost in her castle and Varric's dead. Laughs to go around.

She finds a patch of blood soaked snow and shovels fresher snow atop it. Once the temperatures warm, it'll melt again to reveal it just like before. They'll deal with it then. What does it matter? Blood is becoming a part of the landscape.

Josephine walks in the distance, cloak huddled close, moving through a corridor. Evelyn finds herself smiling. How long ago was it that the ambassador moved through Haven in drab cloaks, battling the elements? Who might have imagined that they would become close?

Evelyn hurries after her, following her into her study and shaking the snow from her hair and shoulders. Josephine nearly jumps when Evelyn closes the door. "Inquisitor." Evelyn smiles quizzically. So they're playing this game again, are they? Josephine touches the documents on her desk before looking to her. "If I may ask—why do you have a shovel?"

"I thought you could use one." Josephine responds with a gentle quirk of her eyebrow. "Sorry. I… was excited to see you and brought it without thinking." Her face is reserved. Evelyn sets the shovel aside. She and Josephine spent considerable time discussing the events of the past few weeks the morning after she returned to Skyhold. It's clear that the deaths of Anora and Alistair have hit Josephine hard. She wept when Evelyn shakily told her of Varric's sacrifice. How kind she is. Evelyn admires her openness to emotion. Yet, she looks tired and distracted. Evelyn brushes a kiss to Josephine's cheek and takes her hand. There are ripples of tension in Josephine's fingers. "Are you all right?" Josephine's eyes glisten. "That's a stupid question. Everything's rubbish. Haven, the bloody journey to get here, Crestwood, Adamant and now this attack. I don't know if it'd help to talk about it or smile and pretend nothing's wrong." She grins briefly at that. "I need to work on that, actually."

Josephine nods but Evelyn isn't sure if it's to what she says. She disentangles their fingers and Evelyn's fingers curl, aching to reach out to her again. She laces them behind her back. "The matter with the sovereignty has caused considerable trouble, as you might imagine. But my troubles are minor in comparison to what the others have experienced. Particularly you. Are  _you_  all right? Perhaps it is in poor taste to make mention…" Evelyn tenses. "But when we last… had our time together, I noticed you still have nightmares."

"I've had enough of nightmares." Her fingers strain behind her back, digging tightly into one another. "I didn't mean to keep you up. Sorry." Josephine shakes her head, eyes still far away. "Are you worried? It's fine. I mean—what happens in private and what we show the world, that's different. There are others who've had it far worse. I won't drop to my knees shouting 'no' at the skies, if that's…" a beat. "What I mean is… I won't embarrass you. The Inquisition." She'll try not to. "I know you're worried about that at the Winter Palace. It'll be fine. We'll save the Empress. And we'll leave Sera here and… I'll try not to open my mouth."

"If only Sera were our greatest concern."

"And here I thought she was your arch nemesis. What's on your mind? There's  _something_. You can tell me." She feels the heat rushing back into her face and fingers, warming now that she's inside. Another chill begins. "Is this about before?" Her throat closes. "What you said?"  _I've already forgotten._  She wants to will herself to say the words but she can't. She hasn't forgotten. It means everything and nothing but she hasn't forgotten. She forces a smile onto her face, cheer into her voice. "Trying to take it back already? Faster than anticipated. You'd gotten me into bed already, you know. No need to have said it to begin with."

"You are being quite ridiculous," she paces. "But you're right. There is… there is something I must speak to you about."

"What is it?"

Josephine brushes a wavy lock of hair behind her ear, curls her fingers tightly around the pearl necklace circled around her neck. "I… am trying to find the words."

"When have you ever had difficulty with words?" The levity leaves her voice as soon as she sees Josephine's expression. Evelyn frowns. "Why won't you look at me?"

The door to the study swings open. Mother Gisele enters, followed by a man Evelyn doesn't recognize. Tall. Handsome. Antivan. "Inquisitor. Ambassador. I am so sorry to interrupt, however, I have no doubt that either of you could be displeased at our distinguished guest. Lady Montilyet, you obviously know him." Oh. One of her three brothers, perhaps. "But I do not believe that the Inquisitor has yet to meet your betrothed, Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto. He has come all this way to support the ambassador and the Inquisition however he can."

Evelyn looks from Mother Gisele to Otranto. "This is a mistake."

"Really, Inquisitor, the things you say." Josephine moves past her, bowing deeply to Otranto. The pearls dangle delicately from her neck. Evelyn can't stop looking at them. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." She has focused so tightly on Otranto that Evelyn wonders if she knows anyone else is in their presence. "Inquisitor. I apologize that Lord Otranto has joined us so unexpectedly in the midst of our conversation. A great surprise to us both, but we are most welcome to have him here, are we not?"

Evelyn manages a dull, dazed nod.

"Ah, I had heard stories of your beauty, Lady Montilyet, but I fear they did not go far enough." He goes to Josephine, taking her hand in his and kissing it. "What a happy arrangement." He looks at Evelyn, bright eyed and triumphant. Evelyn battles a shortness of breath. "Forgive my manners, Inquisitor, barging in as if it were  _my_  castle and claiming the must think me a cad. I humbly ask for your forgiveness." He does a wave of his hand and bows lowly. Her eyes fall to the shovel and back to him. "It is a pleasure to meet you at long last." He lifts, flashing a killer smile. He touches her arm and presses a kiss to her cheek.

* * *

Cassandra stares at her bare torso in the grimy mirror. More scars. There are those that have faded with past failures and victories. These recent batch are a gift from the dragon that nearly killed her. There are three. One above her right shoulder, the other along her ribs and the last that lanced through her abdomen. She eases into a shift, before donning her leathers.

She has been disoriented for what feels like weeks now. Evelyn is a disappointment, as is Hawke. They've lost the Fereldan royalty and Varric… Why. It hurts to think of him.

She leaves her room and goes to the small chantry that has been constructed along the garden walls. She has gone there every day since returning to Skyhold. Each day she lights a tea candle for the dwarf and says a small prayer for his departed soul. Despite his constant jabbering and bluffing, he wasn't all talk. He died to give them the opportunity at life, of stopping Corypheus.

Why  _him_?

How he'd laugh if he saw her. Maybe he now stands at the side of the Maker. She blanches, thinking of the things he might say to Him. She thinks of the wild stories he'll tell. _Look, I know you have an eye on everything but this one you really have to hear._  Would he tell stories about her? Likely they would be ludicrous. And magnificent.

The door groans open behind her and she turns. It's Hawke. Her gaze goes too far, making her eyes unfocused. She sets sights on her and blinks. So here she is: the reason Varric is dead. How much love did he bear the Champion that he would die for her? He lied to Cassandra, even after she had him kidnapped and held hostage. For nearly a year he invented excuse after excuse, saying Hawke's whereabouts were unknown. But Cassandra pressed. Had she not, would he still live?

"Seeker Pentaghast."

"Hawke." The apostate remains at the door a moment longer before pressing into the room. Cassandra tenses as the woman comes to stand beside her. Hawke lights a candle. "I did not think you a believer."

"I wonder why."

She is constantly flippant even if now the delight is absent from her eyes. Cassandra tries not to think of the things that Nightmare said. Hawke turned to blood magic to save her. Is evil done for good, against the will of the recipient inherently evil? Is it evil under duress? Did she think Evelyn would kill her if she did not do as was commanded? Does a woman like Hawke fear a woman like Evelyn? Evelyn was half mad during the journey. Perhaps she was right to take her at her word. Blackwall later told her the two women came to blows. "Leliana mentioned you intend to remain with the inquisition."

"Varric wanted to stay until this whole mess was sorted out. I owe him that, at least." She glances at another candle and it lights.

"You shouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"This is the dwelling of the Maker. Magic is to serve man. It is not for party tricks."

"My existence isn't a party trick."

Cassandra sighs. Will it always be a chore between them? "I wish to speak to you."

"As you say, Seeker."

"No smart remark?"

"I was never quite so clever as Varric. And I'm tired."

"I have never said… that I am sorry for what happened."

"That you kidnapped him to get to me?" Her smile is jovial but her eyes remain flat. Cassandra knows she's purposefully misunderstanding. "He'd probably still be alive if you hadn't done that."

"More jokes?"

"No. Not jokes. You captured  _him_  to get to  _me_. I hope you're happy. How do they promote Seekers? Because you don't strike me as particularly clever. You didn't find me. You didn't find the Inquisitor in Crestwood. You couldn't find the Warden. So you're after what, the truth? You came to Kirkwall and weren't interested in the truth. You left us mages to our fate."

"Because they were all maleficarum. Including you." Hawke flinches. Nightmare claimed Hawke turned to blood magic for a woman who would be ungrateful. Was the demon wrong? Is she not berating Hawke for the methods she used to save her life? "I am grateful." But is she? Maybe she doesn't want Nightmare to be right. Maybe she doesn't want Hawke's moral sacrifice mean nothing.

"No, you aren't." Hawke rubs the palm of her hand absently. She takes a step back and sits on a pew.

Cassandra watches the candles light one by one. "You knew Varric for a very long time. Over ten years."

"I know how long I knew Varric."

"This must be difficult. Varric knows what you've lost. He only wanted to see that you did not lose more."

"It was my choice to make." Hawke bows her head, fingers curling around her temple. "He was more a brother to me than Carver. Isn't that awful? Stupid noble dwarf." Tears run down her face. She wipes them hastily. "Maker, I thought I'd had a lifetime of crying."

Cassandra sits beside her. "He was a good man. I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to tell him." A beat. "I am sorry I wasted the opportunity to tell him." She looks at Hawke's hands, red, the palm scarred and stitched closed. Blood spilled for her. "You survived. You are valuable."

"As an Inquisitor? As a hostage? No, I'm not."

"You are neither." She reaches out to take her hand and stops. "I cannot say that I fully trust you. Certainly I have many questions. I cannot trust what Varric has told me." She puts her palms flat on her knees to keep her hands still. "Throughout the madness in Kirkwall both you and Varric claimed that you never turned to blood magic. And yet you went to it when it was asked."

"The Inquisitor threatened to kill me."

"I think we both know the Inquisitor is no threat to you."

Hawke smiles faintly at that. "We know now."

"Won't you answer the question?"

"Isn't it obvious?" No. It is not obvious. "I was hoping for another kiss."

Cassandra stands, irritated. "I thought we were speaking like adults."

"Do adults not speak of kisses? I admit that I prefer to do rather than talk. You're of a similar mind."

Yes, but not that way. "You thought Anders was justified in his actions." A beat. "Zealots like him and his supporters kill innocents." Innocents like Regalyan and Anthony. Sadness flares in her eyes again. Was it right to go to that? To hurt her because she wanted to avoid discussions of kisses? She tells herself that Hawke's thinking is imperative to knowing her character.

"Our emotions make us think and do unreasonable things."

"Are you excusing him or yourself?"

"Cassandra…"

"What?" she snaps.

A beat. "I'm grieving. I can't think straight. I can't…" she shakes her head, finishing.

"Oh." She sits uncomfortably, jarred by the admission. Hawke laces her hands in front of her, staring at the candles. "Might I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Be serious. For once." Hawke doesn't respond and Cassandra takes it as her opening to go ahead. "You claim you never practiced blood magic. When that dragon happened. I don't know. I was in a fog. I remember your face and your words. You said 'I'll fix this'. How did you know?" Hawke smiles. "Is it funny? That you would use the thing that drove me to the Seekers?"

"No."

"Then?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was doing. I saw you. The way you looked…" she remembers. "I didn't want you to be afraid. So I said something I thought might help you be less afraid. Did it work?"

"I don't know." She remembers the terror vividly. But she had not wanted to die. It terrified her that she might die. It terrified her that the woman she looked up to could have the necessary blood magic capabilities to spare her. "You saved me. Why? You had to know how I would respond."

"If I gave a damn about what anyone thought, I'd never get anything done." She gets to her feet. "I saved you because…" she looks her over. "The idea of this Inquisition running without you terrifies me. Especially with Varric gone. Leliana and Cullen are frightening enough on their own. But all the others who jump at the Inquisitor's word… Things could get out of hand. I wasn't going to let the Herald's stupidity get you killed. You deserve more."

"I don't know that I agree."

"That's why you deserve everything." She averts her gaze. "I'm sure you know where I'm staying. Leliana's never been very good at minding her own business. If you think of any more questions or if you're looking for company… come find me."

She leaves. Cassandra swallows hard, her cheeks blazing hot. Why must this all be so confusing?

* * *

It does not help that the man is handsome. And courteous. Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto has spent many of the previous days with her, exploring Skyhold, reminiscing about the state of Antiva while speaking of the madness that tears the land. She smiles and makes conversation. It is in fact, not difficult to do so with him. Yet, she finds herself distracted and thinking of Evelyn. She had forgotten how large Skyhold is. She has not seen her in days and likely she will not unless Evelyn deems to present herself.

Lord Otranto takes the time to meet the warriors and diplomats of the Inquisition. When they walk together they make a striking pair. Josephine cannot deny that the match is one made well. It is not one she wanted but he is handsome and charming, intelligent and knowledgeable about the political climate that hangs over Thedas. Evelyn does not care to know about such things.

"You look lost in thought," he tells her. He stands before one of the bookshelves, glancing back at her with a smile. "I see you write letters and stop every few minutes. I wonder what weighs on your mind."

"I cannot imagine what," she returns with a tired smile. He knows full well that Anora and Alistair were lost as well as the ire they have earned with Arl Teagan and Viscount Bran. "Lord Otranto—"

"Please, we are betrothed. You must call me Adorno."

Josephine sets her quill down. She cannot focus with him here. It feels as if it were only yesterday that she and Evelyn got on a first name basis. This is not the Game. It would be so much simpler if it were. "Perhaps in time. Forgive me. It is as you say. I have much on my mind."

"I suppose we have the rest of our lives to get to know one another. You will forgive me if I do not wish to wait years. However, I understand if you need time." He comes closer. "You likely have reservations. I am a stranger, after all. But this is a good union. We will forge a powerful alliance that will benefit both families." He takes her hand. "And I will be a devoted husband to you. You have my word."

"Thank you. And I…" Will be a devoted wife. She cannot say the words. She only screams inwardly until he releases her hand. She should be happy. She ought to be ecstatic. This man is to be her husband. He can father her children—which she does not doubt will be adorable. And yet… did she not confess her love to Evelyn? She saw how the words affected her. She meant what she said. How she wanted her to say the words back.  _Don't worry. I haven't forgotten what we are. What we aren't._  But Josephine wishes for them to forget. Can they not?

No. Not anymore. She is engaged. She is engaged because she wanted to keep all knowledge of her relationship with the Inquisitor a secret.

"And I…?" he prompts. "I lost you again." She withdraws from him. She needs wine. She needs Evelyn. She cannot think of a way to disentangle herself from this. Why has he come here? Why has he been so thoughtful and romantic?

"And I…" she considers, "I… have… high hopes that I can return the same words to you one day."

"You wish to be a devoted husband to me?"

She blinks, lightheaded. "Forgive me. I am…" Dazed. "This has all been so sudden."

"And I have not given you a moment's privacy. I apologize. I have a few friends in the Fereldan court and Kirkwall. I'll see to it that they get a hold of the situation and perhaps the ear of both Eamon and Bran." Josephine looks at him curiously. "I have also asked my family to make a donation to the Inquisition. It won't replace the lives that were lost but it will feed some hungry mouths."

"That is…" she is surprised at the excitement in her voice. "That is quite generous, Lord Otranto. I thank you."

"It's the least I can do for my bride to be," he says with a bow of his head. "But I am dying for some wine and a good sparring match. Until we meet again, my lady."

He exits and Josephine is nearly sorry for his departure. Nearly. She returns swiftly to her desk. She has started several letters to Evelyn but completed none. It would be the utmost impropriety if she were to write letters to her lover while in the presence of her betrothed. And yet, he is the one who interfered.  _No doubt it was Yvette and your mother._  Yes. That is more likely.

She sits again and stares at the canvas of blank paper. There are no words for the sorrow and regret she feels. Curse Mother Gisele, coming in like that as if she was the appropriate party to deliver such news, to have the gall for such an interruption. Often times she thinks the woman disapproves of the Inquisitor. Their relationship is not a secret within the inner circle.

She swallows and writes.

_My dearest Evelyn,_

_I have tried in vain to see you for the past several days. I know you must have questions. Perhaps you are angry and I cannot blame you. Please believe me when I say that this was a surprise to me as well. I would never knowingly deceive you._

She folds the letter and tears it in half. That isn't true. She did know. She was too much of a coward to say so. She tried to find the perfect way to say it, a way they might laugh about, a way that would make it seem less horrible than it was. What is the purpose of writing a letter, anyway? Anything she could say, any truth would instantly repel her.

She takes a breath and starts over.

_Evelyn,_

_I must see you. Please tell me when would be best. I never wanted to deceive you. What I said to you the night you returned from Adamant—I meant those words. What we are, what we aren't—that is only for us to decide._

She exits the office and goes to the Herald's room, careful of the eyes on her. She knocks in vain but gets no answer. She slides the letter under the door and hopes for a miracle.

* * *

"So," Hawke says. "Lady Montilyet has a fiancé. That's so…smart of her." Hawke reclines against the slippery stone wall, caked with ice. Evelyn grips the hilt of the greatsword tighter. Hawke decides that she hates this woman. Who is  _she_  to run this Inquisition? Perhaps it's her fault for going into hiding, for wanting to help Kirkwall. Evelyn remains a coward, a coward whose indecision killed her dearest friend and nearly killed Cassandra. Not only that, Evelyn would have killed  _her_  if not for Carver and Blackwall. Hawke knows it, even if Cassandra doesn't.

Hawke looks at the stuffed dummy in front of Evelyn. "That's nice, isn't it? Fitting for a templar. Striking at an enemy that couldn't possibly fight back."

"Is there something you want, Hawke?" Her voice is devoid of anger. It is even. The evenness of the templar. Hawke fights a shiver. "If you've come to get a rise out of me, you're wasting your time. And not that it's any of your business but Josephine and I set up ground rules to avoid… difficulty in these sorts of situations."

"Ground rules? That sounds very romantic." Evelyn looks at her. Once again the blood in Hawke's veins runs cold. So much rigidness. It would only take one crack to collapse the entire foundation. Is it hatred in her eyes? Meredith once had that same gaze, hidden beneath the ice. "I've seen Lord Otranto. Quite easy on the eyes. Do you think they'll set up their own ground rules or discuss yours and laugh? Perhaps they won't speak of you at all." She considers. "That would be my wager."

Evelyn jams the tip of her sword into the frozen ground.

Hawke crosses her arms and smiles. "Will you stand there and do nothing? Again. Perhaps I should be worried. As many people die through inaction as action. Stand there. Say nothing. Do nothing." Hawke waits for the strike.

"Engagements can be broken. It's been known to happen."

"Is that what you're telling yourself?"

"What's your problem?" Some anger, at last. "Why have you come to bother me? I'm sorry about Varric. I miss him, too."

"You didn't even know him!"

"So what? You have a monopoly on grief? Do you think those we've lost doesn't weigh on me?" And now her voice bristles. "I would have stayed behind."

"That's the point! You  _would_  have stayed behind! When everyone is doing their damnedest to keep you alive! They need you…!" she lowers her voice, hisses, "all of them here need  _you_  and  _you_  think it better to die, easier to die, more heroic to die! The hard thing is making the difficult choices and living with the repercussions. Don't you bloody know that? Why don't you know it all this time later?"

"You're the one who told me to run. You're the one who said I'd given them enough! What changed?" Hawke doesn't know what changed. "Everything I do, you think me a coward!" Evelyn looks away, glaring, her eyes shiny. Is it the lyrium? The cold? The tears? "So now you're telling me it's heroic to let people die for me? To keep letting people die for me? How many did you let die for you, Hawke? Is that why you were so willing to throw your life away for Carver?" Hawke bites back a retort. It was different. Evelyn seems ready to go on but the hot energy dissipates and she falls back. "Just because Varric rushed off,  _before_  I could leave you in the Fade, doesn't mean you're safe. I know what you are. Don't provoke me. Varric's not here to protect you."

"Careful, Inquisitor. I'm beginning to think you don't like me. You said to me if I let her die, you would kill me. And now that I've saved her, the way you asked, you're once again threatening to kill me." Her eyes flash. "If you had any blood in your veins I'd expect a late night visit for some templar-mage play." She tsks.

"I've no interest in washed up champions. But you have a pretty face. Perhaps you'll get your wish. I'm not the only templar in Skyhold." Evelyn takes her sword and goes.

Hawke looks around, counting them by the shine of their armor.

* * *

They lift their heads when she walks into the war room. Josephine's breath stops before her movements do. Leliana smiles. Evelyn is a mask. She needs to speak to both women for different reasons. If only things with Lord Otranto had not played out as they did, she might have sought Evelyn's counsel regarding her suspicions of Leliana. Perhaps she still can.

Leliana is an old friend. And Josephine is frightfully aware of how dedicated she is to her position and the Inquisition. More dedicated than anyone. Josephine still doesn't know if Leliana fears everything or nothing. Her actions point to either.

"Josie. What a pleasure. It's been days since I've laid eyes on you." She walks the length of the table, her hand massaging the back of her neck. "I was just telling the Inquisitor the good news. Thanks to our spy network and our little collection of gossip, we've managed to make the necessary arrangements to net the Inquisition an invitation to the Winter Palace. Empress Celene may be saved after all. If she does her part and listens."

Josephine experiences another trill of fear. She looks to Evelyn, searching for any indication of similar alarm but Evelyn studies the war table, along with several pieces of correspondence. "That is remarkable. I'm not surprised you've managed the feat—but I am impressed at how little time it took you."

"Maybe they gave us the Fereldan royalty's invitations," Evelyn remarks absently.

"Perhaps," Leliana agrees. "Their loss is our gain."

Josephine frowns. "It is in poor taste to say such a thing so soon after… what has happened."

"Do not speak to us of what is done in poor taste, Lady Montilyet." Evelyn says. Josephine flushes. Leliana scratches her cheek. Evelyn sets the papers down. "Well done, Leliana. I'll look over this intel you've provided. We'll speak further after you've finished your business with the ambassador."

Leliana nods. "Inquisitor."

Evelyn moves past her. Josephine is astonished at how she seizes her arm to prevent her from going. Leliana busies herself with papers. Evelyn gives no resistance. "Did you receive my letter?" Josephine asks. She tries to keep her voice quiet but it echoes in the space. This is ridiculous. They nearly died for one another in the hallway leading up to this room and here they are, barely on speaking terms. "Please allow me to see you. Or see me… when you are able. I implore you."

Evelyn tugs her arm free and moves away. Josephine swallows hard. Leliana looks at her tentatively. That is… disappointing. For a moment she wonders if it's over. If all of it is over. She had not thought so. She had thought this a setback but perhaps this is more than enough for Evelyn to end things between them. They are nobles. What is a small engagement… She's nauseous.

"If nothing else, you have a handsome fiancé," Leliana says.

Josephine rears on her. What madness is in her eyes? All of Leliana's playfulness vanishes. Who is she to tease her? Ridicule her? She had no control over any of it.  _Didn't you?_  "I want you to tell me what happened the night Skyhold was attacked."

Leliana lifts an eyebrow. "You were there, Josephine. You know as well as I do what happened."

"What I know is that Queen Anora is a capable woman, trained as a warrior. She was armed and in your care and she died."

"As many of the men and women of the Inquisition died."

"Do you think I have forgotten what you said? How convenient it would be if something were to happen to her? You practically salivated at the thought, Leliana!" She's surprised to find herself shaking.

"Josie. That night was difficult. You're not accustomed to such bloodshed. There has been much unrest both with the Inquisition and your new engagement. So I am going to forget what you are saying and attribute it to stress. The last thing the Inquisition needs is the ambassador shouting at the top of her lungs that the spymaster has assassinated the Fereldan queen during a siege at Skyhold."

Josephine's eyes burn. "Tell me it is not true. Look me in the eye, Leliana and swear to me."

"I have looked into many eyes, Josephine, and told many lies. Is that what you want? No matter my words, no matter the truth, you've formed your own conclusions." She sighs soft and sad. "Now, there is work to be done. You're excused." Josephine stands, fists balled, unsure of what to believe. Leliana's eyes rove the map. Josephine doesn't move. Leliana doesn't lift her head. "If you're wise, you'll never speak word of this to me or anyone else again. Ambassadors, like queens, and bards, like viscounts and empresses, can be replaced. It is only the Inquisitor who is irreplaceable, as you well know."

Josephine blinks her eyes, turns and goes.

* * *

She swims in a lyrium haze.

The song of the Maker spirals around her. It warms and bolsters her, even if it leaves her hands cold. Does she have anything beside this Inquisition? Does she have anything outside of the Maker? Even if the Anchor was a mistake, some accident, could it be His work? Does she have a greater purpose? She must have a greater purpose. If not… No. The Maker is not so cruel.

She kneels on the chantry floor and stares up at the statue of Andraste, glowing from the light of the tea candles. Mother Gisele compared them but they're nothing alike. Andraste didn't lose so many. The king and queen of Ferelden are dead. Their deaths will come back to hurt the Inquisition. Maybe they could have their own people, those loyal to the Inquisition assume the duties of the king and queen 'temporarily'. Maybe Arl Teagan and Viscount Bran ought to be dealt with. The Antivan Crows and the House of Repose work for them, after all. What's another death or two, to save the Inquisition? To stop another meaningless war? If the Maker guides her, she can do no wrong. If the Maker guides her, her actions are in His stead.

The only distraction is the ambassador. She cannot stop thinking of Josephine. Why does it hurt? They've both known what this is. Her vision blurs thinking of her and she squeezes her eyes shut, forcing her hands still. Her faith should be enough. Her faith should be everything. If it hurts, it is because she is weak. Evelyn knows she's always been weak but faith should carry her. What she once disregarded, once ridiculed, has carried her far. So why does she feel gutted?

She doesn't know what to pray for that isn't selfish. They've lost people but they're winning this war. How many will die for them to go into the red?

The chantry doors creak open. Evelyn turns her head enough to see the fashionable suede shoes. Evelyn forces her heart to a calm. Her steps are quiet. She moves soft, though not so soft as Leliana or Sera. "It did not take so many days to find you in Crestwood," Josephine says. "I had to bribe several guards for your location. So much for my stash of wine and chocolates."

"I'd dismiss them but everyone knows you drive a hard bargain." The candles flicker. Didn't she fall in love with her in the candlelight? In her hum? The thought knocks the air out of her. "What do you want?"

"I want… I wanted an opportunity to explain to myself."

"Are you still engaged to Lord Otranto?" Silence. "Then there's nothing to explain."

"I meant what I said to you."

"I heard what you said, Josephine."

"Have you not always been the one to say that you know what we are? That you know what we aren't? We are nobles. It is an engagement. They cannot be so easily broken." Fire builds in her voice. Frustration.

What happened, she wants to ask, to the two of them deciding what they are and aren't. No point in bringing it up now. "You have a choice. You're making your choice."

"What choice have I? To spit on my family's honor? To cast away the work they have put into this union? This is not simply an engagement. This is an arrangement of fortunes. This is a matter of bloodlines."

Evelyn keeps her jaw clenched. She talks of fortunes. The Montilyets have had their fleets returned to them. They can trade again. How much fucking coin does the family need? How much will be enough to satiate her lust for wealth and status? The other matter, the one of bloodlines, children, families—that she can't think of. It's impossible to give her a child, to give her anything that will come from the both of them. It's so impossible she almost laughs. It's so impossible it leaves her breathless to know Josephine's even thinking of it.

"It is not my intention to stay in this engagement," she continues. "Please. You must believe me. But disentangling myself from it… it could take weeks. Months." Months? "It could take years."

Evelyn looks back at her. Josephine stoops, kneeling in front of her. Years. She can't wrap her head around it, much less her tongue. She bows her head and tries to breathe. "Leave him." The words have left her before she knows it. "Just tell him…" Josephine shakes her head. "Does he know about me?" Another shake. "Did you ever tell your family?" Josephine writes her family weekly. They've been together months. Josephine's eyes glisten, her jaw quivering. Evelyn exhales and lifts her head, turning to Andraste, trying to come to terms with the anger and grief filling her.

Josephine reaches out to touch her face but Evelyn jerks away. Josephine licks her lips. "You think me a liar but I promise you, I did not lie when I said that I love you. I do love you, Evelyn. You do not understand my position. I have no choice in this matter."

Evelyn smiles bitterly. "And it helps that Lord Otranto is pledging coin, men and political allies to this Inquisition, does it not?" Leliana's already filled her in.

Josephine's lips tighten. "I will not turn away aid that is freely offered to the Inquisition. It is my job to curate such favors."

"Through engagements? If it is freely offered, end your engagement and see if his terms still remain. You were not brought on to be a whore for the Inquisition. And if you were, Leliana chose poorly. Surely there are others better suited, more acquainted with the talents for such a position." Josephine's hands curl but she does not slap her. Instead, her eyebrows narrow. Tears spill out of her. Evelyn's throat is dry but she is undeterred. "You always do this. You make things difficult to be polite, to follow decorum nobody in their right mind gives a shit about. And when has it ever worked in your favor? The House of Repose nearly bloody killed you for this nonsense you cling to. You would throw us away in order to not offend a family no one outside of Antiva has even heard of."

"As opposed to the mighty Trevelyan family from Ostwick? You are barely regarded as anything more than chasind. If your family were as powerful as you now try to claim, do you not think we would have utilized them? Instead, I am left to put out fires when one of them gets out of line and thinks themselves of import simply because you happen to be our Inquisitor."

The words shouldn't sting. There's nothing she disagrees with. Nothing she hasn't said before. Nothing she didn't expect Josephine to believe—except she does. And she has voiced it. Except she has only lain out why the Trevelyans are an embarrassment, why they won't work. And still she perseveres. "Engagements can be broken."

"Not without cost. I am the head of my family. This is not only my life that is risked. But our future, our legacy. I cannot disappoint them. I will not."

"Is it only I who must be disappointed?" She smiles. She nearly tells her that she knows what it is to break an engagement. That she knows what it is to leave a fiancé and a chantry full of disappointed guests. To see her father's hard work ruined. To see her brother's crestfallen face as she wrecks matters in the best and worst possible way. "You think you have matters under control. You're so self-assured but you disappoint me over and over again. I hate that I love you. If I sit with it long enough, I wonder if it's love at all. What do I know of it? What  _you've_  taught me?" She laughs. "You've only given me misery and doubt."

"I know you are angry. If you seek to hurt me, then I congratulate you. But I implore you. Do not do this. Words are like magic. Once spoken, they cast a spell that cannot be undone." Evelyn glares. Josephine takes her face in her hands and presses the slightest kiss to Evelyn's lips.

The contact hits her like a shot of alcohol and it's only through her touch that Evelyn realizes how cold she's been, how cold the chantry is. She responds ardently, perhaps too furiously. Josephine breaks the kiss, takes a sharp gulp of air but Evelyn kisses her again, her head going light, the song inside rising again. Warmth. She craves warmth. She craves to be filled with something more than a song.

She maneuvers Josephine onto her back, lips crushed against hers, hand slipping beneath the many ruffles of her dress to come to a rest against her thigh and slide up. She wants to be close to her and right now this is the only way she knows how. Josephine's hands are at her waist, sliding up, crawling to her chest, lingering there. Evelyn cups Josephine, hand between her legs, feeling the warmth and wetness there beneath her small clothes. She can smell her, practically taste her.

Josephine's face is flushed, surely as Evelyn's is. "No." Evelyn stares down at her breathlessly, not understanding. "No. Not here. Not like this."

Evelyn lifts her face and sees candles, Andraste regarding her patiently, pityingly. She doesn't move, looks back to Josephine's face. "I know you want this." Her voice quakes. "I know you want me. You don't have to love me for this. You may be engaged but we're nobles. Engagements don't mean anything to us." How quickly desperation changes her tune. She doesn't believe it but she'll say it, will say anything to prevent this from stopping.

"I cannot, in good conscience, do this. If word of this indiscretion got out, it could jeopardize—"

Is that it? Is that all? Evelyn kisses her. "Word won't get out."  _I'm cold. Help me. Love me. Don't leave me._  "I promise—"

Josephine shoves her. Evelyn blinks, scrambles back. The candles are too bright. Her eyes burn. She gets to her feet. Josephine rises to a sitting. Evelyn goes to her, offers her hand but Josephine ignores it. Maybe because the ambassador has already given her hand to another. Josephine stands and straightens her dress. They look around the chantry uncomfortably.

"You must understand," Josephine says, "that I would do the same if you were my betrothed and another tried such a thing."

"As if you'd ever marry some backwater Ostwick noble." Maybe she would if she were a man. A long silence passes. "You ask me to wait years while I wonder if I'll survive another day. This is hard. I expect it shouldn't be this hard." Is it real? Was it real? It doesn't matter. "Forget this happened. Forget us. Forget me." She keeps her composure. She thanks the lyrium. "I wish you and Lord Otranto the best." She turns and exits, out into the cold night.

The stars are out. She thinks of the Chant of Light.

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

But she sees no light. Feels no light. She withdraws a small lyrium vial and drinks its contents, glancing back to see Josephine staring at her before moving on. Evelyn tosses the vial of lyrium and walks on unsteady legs. She wants to hit things. Destroy things. Point her hand at the sky and pull. Instead, she focuses on the effects of the lyrium, spreading over her, making her warm, the glow like love. Better than love. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Nothing but this feeling and the Maker. She still has the Inquisition. She still has the most powerful army in Thedas. Without Josephine to dictate her every move, there will be no distractions. It's the first time in her life she's felt unstoppable.

* * *

* * *

A/N: The shift begins.

 


	18. Wicked Eyes

Blinding sunlight spikes into her vision.

Evelyn yanks the blankets over her head, wedging her face firmly against the pillow, keeping her eyes shut. Too early. Too bright. Stupid sun. Stupid Josephine. Stupid her. She gave up acrobats. Twin acrobats. Like a lunatic. The blankets are ripped away from her and she pulls her arms and legs to herself. The morning is bitterly chill. When did the fire go out? Who took her blankets. Who's on her bed.

She opens her eyes and shuts them instantly at the light. "Cousin!" Dorian. Maker. It is too early for his energy. "Has my beauty in the golden morning light blinded you? I can't fault you, I am a ravishing specimen. It's the funniest thing," she feels him shift on the bed, settling beside her into a pillow. "I was walking the great hall, hoping to make my way into the kitchen to abscond with one of the newest imports of Tevinter wine, when I see Mother Gisele. You know how  _she_  is and you know how  _I_  am, and she gives me this  _look_. You know which look I'm talking about. As if she'd caught me in the midst of taking a shit in front of your throne. And she says to me 'are you going to see the Inquisitor?'" he doesn't bother to impersonate her accent, "and once challenged, I couldn't very well back down. Especially once she added 'at this early hour' so I said to her, 'you know me too well, Mother! I'll send her your greetings, now where should I plant the kiss? Above? Below?' Naturally she became that icy thing your southern chantry folk go to when you're disgusted. All in all this has been a very productive morning." He shifts on his side and grabs her shoulder, turning her to face him. She frowns and closes her eyes. "So, where shall I plant the kiss?"

"On my ass. It's early. Go away."

He chuckles. "Success! I have unraveled the mystery to ending the silent treatment: irritating you to the point where you  _have_  to address me." Evelyn opens her eyes and looks at him. "We haven't really spoken since Crestwood, Cousin. You know, I do like to hunt my Venatori brethren. I've provided Leliana several of their hideouts. Some of them have even been wiped out. The less of them there are, the less I need to be compared to them. Surely you've seen the reports!" She has. "I am not them. I never will be. I thought you knew that. I had hoped we were past it." He picks up the empty lyrium philter on the nightstand before setting it back. "Is this what we are now? Beautiful Tevinter Altus and moping templar Herald of Andraste?"

Evelyn sighs tiredly. He has too much energy, too much charisma, too many points for her to be able to ignore. "Give me back my blanket," she complains. He gives it to her and she throws it over the two of them, turning to face him.

"You've been afraid of me."

"I haven't."

"You have. You've looked at me, the way your southern chantry kind do. As if you're expecting snakes to grow out of my hair. I know my hair is glistening and sleek but it isn't a spell I've managed yet. Though I am fond of snakes."

"I'm not."

Another chuckle. "I gathered. So, shall we address it?"

Evelyn pulls the pillow closer to her. "I  _just_  woke up."

"I brought wine. After Mother Gisele went on her way I went to the kitchen to grab my prize. So what do you say?" He's off to get it before she can say anything. Evelyn sits up, taking the goblet he hands her before he hops back into bed with her. Her father would love this. If they could enjoy this, the way it's typically enjoyed, maybe they'd both be happier. He has a sip and closes his eyes dreamily. "So, you were attacked by lunatic Tevinter mages. I being a Tevinter mage, absent of lunacy but making up for it with stunning fashion, reminded you of that horrible, horrible experience. Does that about sum it up?"

"I know it's stupid." She can't look at him. "I can't help how I feel." She winces. "How I felt." Now she does look at him. "It wasn't just you. I'm sorry. You're not like them."

"Haven't I been saying that from the very beginning?'

"I meant like mages."

"But I  _am_  a mage."

She finishes the goblet and stands, moving to get her lyrium. Dorian watches, casually reclined against the bed. "I have a war room meeting," she pulls her nightshirt away. She suspected he wouldn't look at her and she's right. She doesn't know what she might have done if he had. Panicked? She dresses, slipping into her vestments, lifting the black gleaming crown and placing it onto her head.

"Has anyone ever told you how ominous that thing is?"

"It's pretty."

"You're right, that makes it all better." He smirks, swinging his legs off the bed and stands. He watches her as she takes the philter and has her morning drink. She wishes he weren't here for it but to put it away would imply that it's something to be ashamed of. It isn't. It's brought her comfort. Clarity. Calm. Strength. His eyes cloud over, guarded for a moment. It's that same look that Hawke gets around her. "So. Should we talk about the other thing?" She arches an eyebrow. "Oh, please. Naturally I mean Lady Montilyet's new beau, Lord Otranto. The woman has abysmal taste! First Blackwall, then this Adorno. What kind of a name is that? If anything, I'm more suited to it, though Dorian does have a ring of perfection to it."

She wouldn't say that was quite the order that Josephine has sifted through potential lovers. "I'm sorry, was there a point in all that self-conceit?"

"Adorno… Dorian…" he considers. "Ah! Yes, this Adorno and Lady Josephine. Have you met the man? It would be in poor taste to introduce him to you but Josephine does love practicing social decorum. I'll admit he smells better than Blackwall. I imagine any man who bathes would. In any case, the man—Otranto, keep up— is a complete twat! Skulking around Skyhold, looking for a duel. When I met him—I didn't know he was. I thought it was a metaphor. It wouldn't be the first time. Imagine my disappointment when he introduced himself as Adorno Ciel Otranto and then proceeded to bore me with details of his family mercantile business. Antivans! All they care about is coin and who they've got in the sack. Let's not forget their wine and assassins."

"I can't decide who's worst. The Antivans and their love for debauchery or the Vints with their penchant for blood magic and slavery," Evelyn says dryly. Dorian scowls. "At least they don't smell like wet dogs like the Fereldans. Let's not speak of the Free Marchers. The Orlesians are too easy to ridicule. Have we forgotten anyone?"

"Nevarrans."

"Necrophiliacs."

"You are delightfully catty. I'd like to hear you say that in front of Cassandra."

"If she bothered speaking to me, I'm sure she'd agree."

"I heard what happened with Hawke."

"I should have brought you instead."

"So I can be the one fearing for my life and prove to be every Tevinter cliché you can think of? Perish the thought! There's nothing more I hate hearing than 'I told you so', unless it's coming from my lips." Evelyn picks up the red sash and wraps it around her waist, knotting it at the side. "Will your meeting be difficult?" she looks at him. "You know… given… Oh, blast it. Tact is not my strong suit. How are you and Josephine doing? Is she putting on a good façade? Are the two of you having the sex of your lives behind the scenes?"

She smiles wryly. Wouldn't that be nice. "I can't speak for Josephine and  _Adorno_  but you're the only one keeping my bed warm."

"And I can't even do that properly! I'll give it some thought. There might be some bedwarmers around Skyhold suitable for the Herald of Andraste. While I conduct my research, however, you should head to your meeting. Try not to start a war."

She smiles. "No promises."

* * *

"Inquisitor. A word."

Evelyn foregoes the war room, happy to delay going through Josephine's study if only for a moment longer. She takes Leliana's lead, following her to the rookery, nodding and greeting the noble guests of the Inquisition. This part has gotten easier. In the end, they see what they want to see. It'd take going out of her way to disrupt their perception of her.

She takes the steps up. It's been ages since she's come this way and she'd forgotten how cold it is. Leliana warns her about the steps slick with ice. Finally they arrive at their destination. Evelyn crosses her arms to keep the chill at bay. Leliana doesn't seem affected by the temperature. Does she realize how cold it is? Inquisition agents linger until Leliana excuses them. The ravens squawk. Black feathers tuft through the air. When the agents have gone, Leliana turns to her.

"I've been meaning to ask you about your time in the Fade. I read your reports. I can't believe it's taken me this long to be able to speak to you about it."

"We haven't exactly been sitting on our laurels." She straightens her back. "It's one calamity after another, isn't it?"

"As much as I wish it were not so. There are two matters. The first pertains to the Fade. You wrote that you saw the Divine there. That she led you out?"

"I believe that is what I saw, yes. Others," Hawke in particular, "are not so certain."

"The Fade is a tricky place. It lets people see what they want to see. I studied your records from the Ostwick Circle, Inquisitor. The Trevelyans are devout. You, on the other hand, caused problems at the Circle. You were  _not_  an example for most templars." Evelyn is grateful she doesn't flinch. "That is to be commended, I suppose. Especially given the troubles at White Spire and Kirkwall. Recently you've made your way to the Maker. You spend considerable time in the chantry. I have to wonder what changed."

"I'm stuck with an Anchor and an Inquisition I never wanted." She smiles wryly. "It may surprise you to know that I don't have many friends." She could get into all of that but there's no point. "Truth be told, I should have been dead several times over by now. I have no other explanation for it other than it must be some divine plan. You know my past. You of all people know how unworthy I am. The Maker does exist. And if the Divine saved me… I have to honor that, don't I? I know she was important to you. And I'm sorry you've lost her." Leliana turns her face so that Evelyn can't see it. "I know I haven't always made the best decisions in my personal life," she adds more quietly, "but I can and I will give everything to this Inquisition to make sure it succeeds. I will not misplace the opportunities the Divine and the Maker granted me. I won't pretend I haven't made mistakes but I'll do my best to rectify them."

Leliana shifts, facing her again. "We can hope, yes? I do. That is a start."

"Divine Justinia asked me to tell you that she's sorry she failed you, too." A beat. "Does that mean anything to you?" Leliana narrows her eyebrows thoughtfully. "I should have said so sooner. I'm sorry. I've been distracted."

Leliana gives a small shake of her head. "I can't imagine what that means. She was the one to save me, time and time again. Maybe it means nothing." A sigh. "Maybe it wasn't her."

"I think it  _was_. Some piece of her. Or essence."

"I wish we had her instead of our guesses. But the Grey Wardens made sure we would  _not_  have her." Her eyes are dark, face pinched tight before it relaxes. "Mh. But they've been exiled. As they should have been. Nor do we need them near when they are under the thrall of Corypheus. I'll think on what she said. Thank you for telling me." Evelyn nods. "There was the other matter. Our ambassador might have come to you about it already. If that's so, you know where this conversation is headed."

"Unless you're here to speak to me of Lady Montilyet's engagement, I can't say I know where this conversation is headed."

"Oh." Another small narrowing of the eyes. "Well, then. I'll get to the point. Prior to the siege at Skyhold, King Alistair and Queen Anora were in intense conversations with Lady Montilyet regarding the status of the Inquisition, the size of our army. They took issue with our spread and the protection we were granting the citizens of Thedas. King Alistair was more agreeable—but we all know he wasn't as clever. Anora, Teagan and Viscount Bran had their qualms with the Inquisition. They were threatened by the power we had amassed in such a short period of time. To me it seemed a certainty that the Fereldan throne would try to disband us. I admitted to Josephine that losing Anora might be an unexpected boon and secure the status of the Inquisition. We were separated in the chaos. I returned without Anora and Lady Montilyet came to her own conclusions."

Evelyn meets her eyes. "Did you kill her?"

"That's all you have to ask?"

Evelyn read the reports that Josephine wrote regarding the meetings. She noted that the Fereldan and Free Marches sovereignty had concerns. Nothing more. However, she does read other reports, she knows that the leaders enclosed within their walls, leaving their citizens to rot have concerns about maintaining their power. "I know that every man and woman that joins the Inquisition is perceived as a lost citizen from their native land. We have amassed a great deal of power, coin and status in a short amount of time. I need to know whether her suspicions are true." Once she knows, she'll know how to respond.

"They are not." There's a flicker in her eyes. "We were surrounded. I was able to stop one of the arrows," she tugs the material around her neck down to reveal a lesion along her shoulder. "But not all."

A nod. "Has she told anyone else?"

"I don't believe she has if she did not raise the issue with you. However, Josephine is painfully scrupulous, as you know. I'm not sure what she might do or what she might say, if her concerns remain unattended."

"Let's ensure that doesn't happen." They start the way back down before Evelyn stops abruptly halfway down one of the steps. The shadows are deepest here. "Leliana. I hope you know that until Corypheus is defeated, we must do everything in our power to stop him and anyone who would think to interfere with our plans, no matter how large or small. Thedas and the will of the Maker come before pride and politics. I know you've had doubts. I have too. But I know He won't abandon us. I'll believe that for both of us until you find your faith again."

Leliana bows her head, and clasps a hand over her chest. "Inquisitor."

* * *

Josephine is certain Evelyn has done it to spite her. Sera, Dorian, Cassandra and Hawke, all together in Halamshiral on what is no doubt the most important diplomatic night of the Inquisition's career and Evelyn has brought only the misfits.

The carriage ride to Halamshiral was spent with Otranto and though handsome and passionate about many of the issues she values, she was irritated and wished for time apart from him. Now they have arrived and everyone is in their finery. Josephine does not miss the stares their party garnishes and is well pleased that even Sera found a suitable outfit for the occasion. Cassandra wears a military cut uniform while Leliana truly went out, dressed in a simple gown with a tailored cut. The price, it would appear, is humble but Josephine knows quite well the coin that went into the garment. Hawke has dressed in some Fereldan thing. She'll never understand the Fereldan's fondness for furs and pelts, leather and belts. Regardless, it is attractive and the apostate woman looks stunning, though Josephine hasn't forgiven her for having written Evelyn off as dead in Crestwood.

She knows the women dislike one another but has yet to identify the reason given how glowingly Evelyn mentioned her before officially having the champion join their party. Evelyn was guarded in those days. Josephine thinks back to the time at the Trevelyan estate, when Evelyn went out of her way to fetch her the kind of wine she thought she might have liked. She remembers their curious, fleeting glances, how she kissed her palm on the mountain during those frigid, difficult nights.

Josephine can't remember the last time Evelyn looked at her as if she mattered. She is angry with her decision to remain engaged to Otranto for the time being. Likely she has no inclination of how desperately Josephine wished she could have given herself at the chantry, how she wants to throw away the rules of decorum, how they steady and throttle her. No. She does not know. She still thinks her uptight and the terrible things she said, hateful words in anger… Josephine flushes thinking about it.

Adorno, with a hand on her elbow looks at her curiously before offering to go get them drinks. Josephine quickly agrees, wanting some time to herself and observe all the parties in attendance. Many diplomats and ambassadors, royalty and lords and ladies. She scans the palace, noticing Sera and Dorian whispering to one another and laughing about Maker knows what. Further off, Hawke speaks to Cassandra and Josephine watches the irritation in Cassandra's face give away to a genuine smile before she frowns again.

Leliana, Cullen and Evelyn are tucked away in a corner, engaged in what looks like hushed whispering. Josephine clenches her jaw and moves through the crowd to make her way to them. Cullen wears a military suit similar to Cassandra's. He shaved his face and looks handsomer than usual. She isn't sure whether to look at Leliana or Evelyn but it is Evelyn who is directly across from her.

Evelyn is ethereal, wearing ebony leather armor crafted especially for this event. The armor is not entirely different from what Cassandra wears but the sigil of the inquisition is boldly embroidered in gold across the chest. The attached cape makes her look like a military commander and the crown on her head like an empress or divine figure. Josephine swallows thickly. "Are we having a war table meeting?"

"We've no table," Evelyn cocks a smile, "I would say not."

"We're discussing the parties of this grand charade," Cullen scowls, looking even more uncomfortable in the environment than Sera or Cassandra. "It has been determined that saving the Empress is not the only option."

Josephine looks at them as if they were strangers. This she might expect from Leliana but from Cullen who can be so level headed? "I hope you are not suggesting what I think you are." She feels like she's repeating history over and over again. She does not miss the small glance Evelyn and Leliana have exchanged. "Why was I not invited to these deliberations?"

"Your role is to forge connections," Leliana points out. "And there are a great many to be made tonight." She cocks her head and Josephine shifts, seeing Otranto scanning the room in search of her. "I see one now, desperate for your attention."

" _This_  is more pressing."

Cullen nods. "Leliana has suggested we raise up Briala. She claims she'll be grateful but I insist that Gaspard would make a better ruler. He was cheated of the throne, it is known and he is well respected among the chevaliers."

Josephine shakes her head. "Allowing Empress Celene to perish would throw all of Orlais into chaos. That is the very reason we came here, to stop this assassination."

"Thank you, Ambassador," Evelyn says. "That will be all."

An icicle forms between Josephine's ribcage. She bows her head curtly, sweating and cold when Otranto shows up at her side with a drink. She takes it hastily. "Inquisitor," she moves away, Otranto following after her. Her cheeks burn, humiliated. She has been dismissed from negotiations. She had not been aware that she had been severing her diplomatic ties the moment she ended things with Evelyn. It is unfair. Angry tears form in her eyes. She downs the glass of champagne and offers it to Otranto who looks at it, befuddled, before putting it on the random tray of a passing elf. Josephine takes his drink and has an angry sip. "The Inquisitor is most ridiculous." Otranto looks to Evelyn and then to Josephine. "It was  _my_  idea to secure an invitation to this ball. And now I am regulated to making niceties." She turns her attention to the group again. Cullen's face is full of disapproving lines while Evelyn and Leliana exchange quick words. Does she turn to them because they were once ardent followers of the Chantry?

"If anyone has the talent to charm all of Halamshiral, it's you."

"Clearly." A beat. "But how unreasonable! I too can provide wise council. I dread to think of what conclusion that group will arrive to." What with Cullen's go to choice being to send soldiers marching into town and Leliana's solution to send the assassins. She should not say such things aloud. She must contain herself. Yet, she cannot stop speaking. "I calmed the waters when the Trevelyan family thought to get out of line. And who has ensured that Ferelden does not turn their arms against us? She appreciates nothing I do."

"She?" A moment. "Do you mean the Inquisitor?" Josephine feels herself scowling and forces her face into placid calm. "I didn't know you had her ear." Josephine shifts, thinking of when she held the Inquisitor's earlobe in her teeth, the way she made Evelyn say her name. The way she once responded to her direction. "Are you close?"

"Where would you get such an idea?"

Otranto takes the second emptied glass she hands him. "You seem upset. And you haven't stopped looking at her all night."

Josephine looks to him, realizing only then how true his words are. Meanwhile, Evelyn has not once turned her way. "Your doubt is unfounded. The Inquisitor and I are nothing to one another." The words catch in her throat. "We are members of the Inquisition. That is all."

"Then you will not take great offense if I ask my betrothed for a dance." He takes her hand and lifts it, leading her to the dance floor. The eyes of lords and ladies turn to them. Josephine nods to them and bows deeply to Otranto, forcing her body to relax when he wraps an arm around her waist. So now she has danced with Otranto like this and with Maxwell Trevelyan but never with Evelyn and certainly not with an audience of this magnitude to witness. Josephine scans the spectators but doesn't see Evelyn amongst them. She tries not to be disappointed.

He has a light step and sways with her as if they were a summer breeze. Above she finally sights Evelyn, arms crossed while Leliana leans over to seemingly whisper in her ear. Josephine grips Otranto more tightly. Evelyn's gaze turns in her direction, catching Josephine's only an instant before she turns away. With a nod of her head, she, Leliana and Cullen withdraw from the room. Josephine doesn't know how her foot catches. Somehow it does. Otranto catches her gracefully before she hits the floor, extending the movement to look natural and as if he were only dipping her. "That was a fine catch," she tells him, her voice trembling with the possible humiliation she might have suffered.

He smiles. "Not so fine as you." He brings his lips close but she has a fist, balled and pressed to his chest. She is not very strong but her one syllabled rejection strikes as true as any physical blow. He mutters an apology. The music comes to an end. She bows again, letting him take her hand and lead her out of the dance floor. She smiles and wonders how many in the room are like her, smiling on the outside, screaming on the inside.

* * *

"Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast." Hawke sighs, as if out of breath. "You know, I think your name  _might_  be longer than the Chant of Light."

She has been going on about this since the members of the Inquisition were introduced to all of Halamshiral. Cassandra tries to muster irritation but is finding it difficult the longer she's with the apostate. "As if you know the chant," Cassandra complains. She does not know how she and the Champion were roped into this evening, but she believes it is Dorian's influence. They have segregated themselves from the others and she finds herself grateful that Hawke is as put out by this nonsense as she is. "But it is long," she admits.

"I saw the announcer down a pitcher of water after he read it. He'll be parched for years."

"He did not."

"I swear it."

"Swear it on your mother." She's silent. So, she does pay proper respect to some things. Cassandra knows she's pushed too hard. The light on her face at the mention of her mother… Cassandra leans into the railing. She is getting tired of wanting to reach for her. "It is not so catchy as the Champion of Kirkwall, I suppose. I do believe your presence grants the Inquisition some degree of legitimacy. There are many who admire you."

"Are you among them?"

"And many who do not," she doesn't know what to do with her arms. She folds them on the railing. Hawke shifts to stand beside her, their arms brushing. Hawke makes no effort to pull away. They look at the nobles swaying to the music on the dance floor. "You are dangerous, you know."

"I've heard."

"To many you are seen as a liberator and to others, a catalyst for all of this chaos." Hawke stares ahead. The woman is only a few years younger than her, but her eyes are harrowed and penetrating. The losses she has suffered. It must be difficult. "How do you see yourself?"

"I'm Marian Hawke. Nothing more. Nothing less. Everyone has their opinions. Some people don't think I ever amounted to much of anything."

"Those people are wrong." Hawke looks at her and Cassandra regrets saying it. The Champion's eyes scan the room and then she takes her hand and tugs her. Cassandra removes it, agitated, but follows Hawke out into the balcony. The air is much cooler here and voices echo from the garden below. Nobles laugh loudly, others lament some injustice their partners have committed. Do they not get tired of bed hopping? "What are you planning?"

"Your advisors have absconded with your Inquisitor. Perhaps it's time you get Evelyn's attention again." Cassandra crosses her arms. "She's already cut Josephine out of negotiations. I can't say I know the ambassador well but she seems a reasonable sort. That sort of level-headedness is useful."

"And you expect me to what? Fulfill her role as the diplomat? You do not know me very well." No one has ever accused her of being level-headed.

"You could try beating some sense into her. Just let me know when you intend to so I can watch. I'll place bets."

"Very funny."

"The Herald listens to you."

"The Inquisitor and I are not on good terms."

"Rubbish. She has a soft spot for you. Use it."

Yes. Evelyn did confess to…. Whatever she confessed to long ago. But that was… It would not be kind to take advantage. If she is to persuade her with anything, it should be with truth. "You suggest I work what little charm I have?" To what purpose?

"I suggest you work the considerable charm you have."

"Do not try to flatter me."

"Will flattery get me anywhere?" She considers, her eyes far away and then she shakes her head. Who is she thinking of? Cassandra leans in beside her on the railing. "I'm afraid of what will happen tonight. If Celene is assassinated, Orlais will fall apart."

"I did not know you had a soft spot for Orlesians. Celene could stand to be replaced. She is useless and cares only for her games. She has shifted Orlais in a secular direction."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Plenty."

"Haven't you considered that the Chantry's teachings are the very reason that we're here today? We wouldn't have this holy war if they hadn't taught their followers to hate."

"The chantry does not teach hatred. It teaches acceptance. Unconditional love."

"You can't really believe that. After Kirkwall? After this?"

Cassandra isn't interested in arguments. "In any case, I think you overestimate my value to the Inquisitor."

"Do I? You know how she is. She's abrupt and surly and entirely unlikable. She thinks of you as a friend. And I see how she watches you when we're together. If I had not done as she'd asked at Adamant, she would have killed me."

"I fail to see what that has to do with my so-called influence."

"She wouldn't have threatened me like that for anyone else. Mages terrify her. They make her scurry like a dog with its tail between its legs. And the dreaded blood magic… It must make her piss herself."

If that's the case, why bring the two apostates who are most dangerous to the Inquisition to Halamshiral? Unless this is Evelyn's bravado. "She experienced a difficult thing at the hand of those Venatori."

"I experienced difficult things at the hands of templars. You don't hear me complaining."

"You're complaining  _now_."

She laughs, gripping the balcony. How light her laughter is, her eyes. It surprises Cassandra. "I suppose you're right. Fine. You don't support Celene but surely you support the Inquisitor. She needs you, Cassandra. I know she disappointed you, just as I did—but she did it because she couldn't stand the thought of anything happening to you. As much as I want to, I can't blame her for that."

Cassandra scoffs. "So you're on her side now."

"Varric died for her. I won't let that be in vain. We have to win this. Whatever happens—we'll go from there. I know what you've said. And Varric teased me about it. But I'm still holding out hope."

"For what? To win this war?"

"For us to become closer." She draws her gloved fingers over the railing and Cassandra stares, transfixed. For all she knows it could be a spell. Hawke meets her eyes. "You make me feel like there's hope left in the world. Thedas won't fall to the dark. Not while you're here. I suppose that's silly. I haven't known you very long. Not compared to those in Kirkwall. Those that have…" a frown. She's thinking of Varric. She's thinking of Anders. And her mother. Her father. Her sister. How many others…? Cassandra laces her fingers and holds to them like a lifeline. "I didn't know I could believe in things like that anymore. It's surprising."

Cassandra grits her jaw. Her heart patters. She feels ill and warm. Cassandra's throat is tight. "Do not speak such things."

"Why not? I haven't lied to you." A beat. "Do you want me to lie to you?"

"No. Of course not."

She bows her head, nods. "Let's get back to the festivities, Seeker." Cassandra reluctantly follows.

* * *

She's attempting to spy on a salacious conversation between an Orlesian noble and her handmaiden when she's tapped on the shoulder. She turns and discovers what appears to be another Orlesian lady, done up in all manner of ruffles, the corset accentuating a rather small waist. She wears a mask, as the others do but nowhere near as extravagant. "Excuse me," her voice is high and nervous, accented. Antivan? "But you are the Herald of Andraste, are you not?"

Evelyn grudgingly turns from the conversation. It's just as well. This is Leliana's job and that of her birds. Maker, these Orlesians do love their scandals. Perhaps she's only stalling her meeting with the empress. "I am."

She lets out an excited squeal. "It is I—Yvette Montilyet! Josephine must have told you, yes? I am to meet her here but she has barely paid any attention to me," she pouts. "I cannot believe I am in your presence. I have tried to get the details from her but she as tight fisted as ever. You are taller than I imagined." She cocks her head to look at her and Evelyn reaches forward to remove her mask.

It's against all etiquette and Josephine would throttle her if she saw it, but she was never one for following the rules. She is curious to see this face. Her eyes are hazel, set against her deep olive skin. Evelyn doesn't doubt this woman is able to command attention like a sword. She's even more beautiful than Josephine. But young. Evelyn stares at her. Josephine has only spoken of her briefly, and when she has, Yvette has sounded irritating, flighty and impractical. This woman will never be family to her. It was never a possibility. Why did she feel as if it had? It's pointless to think of it now. "It's good to meet you, Yvette."

"I cannot wait to tell everyone that I have met the Inquisitor!" She hooks her arm around Evelyn's and begins to move throughout the ballroom, seemingly indifferent about the absence of her mask. "Josephine did write that you were very helpful in resolving our family situation. It was regarding trading—or importing—something. Oh, it's all so boring. Tell me, is she as prissy with the Inquisition as she is back home?"

"I'm quite certain she's even prissier."

Yvette laughs. "Ah, ha. So like her. She studied in Val Royeaux and did not go to nearly enough soirees. It is a waste of her considerable talents. Had I her silver tongue, I would not waste it on these politics. Why not go out and enjoy life? You cannot be an artist without having lived."

"Josephine isn't an artist."

Yvette waves it away. "Are you and my sister close?"

"We were lovers. Then she got engaged."

Yvette nearly falls down the stairs. Josephine stands at the top and looks at both of them with a strained smile. Otranto is at her side. Evelyn and he stare at one another, their smiles equally strained. "Josephine! You would not believe the stories the Inquisitor has been telling me!" She looks surreptitiously at Otranto and then to Josephine again. "As always, you keep all the best ones to yourself."

"What sorts of stories?" Otranto asks good-naturedly.

"Do not pay attention to my younger sister," Josephine warns, "she has a penchant for exaggeration."

Evelyn smiles. "Maybe she's a good balance for you." She looks to Otranto. "The Ambassador is well known to downplay the gravity of a situation."

"Is that so?" Otranto asks.

"Only if the Inquisitor is making something out of nothing." Evelyn and Josephine look at one another. She looks as composed as ever. Does nothing bother her? How cold she is. "I am surprised that Yvette has been able to track you down this evening, Lady Trevelyan." She turns to Otranto. "The Inquisitor is as slippery as an eel sometimes."

Evelyn fights away a sneer. "Fancy holding eels, Ambassador?"

Josephine steps past Yvette and Otranto and takes hold of her arm tightly. Evelyn near yelps. "Please excuse us. I have urgent business with the Inquisitor." She 'guides' her through some of the clusters of people to a relatively secluded corner.

Some of that composure slips away. Evelyn cannot recall the last she saw her so vexed. It makes her happy. "Going to have your way with me?"

"What did you tell Yvette?"

"Here I thought you were going to talk Inquisition business. You do have a soul. Are you jealous? She's quite pretty."

"I am serious. What did you say?"

"Only that we were lovers until Otranto came along. She asked if we were close. I couldn't lie to the girl." Josephine pales. "Relax. I doubt Yvette thinks her older sister has it in her."

"Yvette is an incorrigible gossip. You should know better to say such things. Especially while we're at the Winter Palace," she menaces. Evelyn shrugs. Josephine looks her over. "Have you met with the Empress yet? I know you do not agree with how things ended between us, but I would ask that you be prudent with tonight's undertakings. Cullen and Leliana's paths are not the only way forward."

"You would suggest I allow Celene to continue as she has? She doesn't care about anything other than the status quo."

She scoffs. "You sound as if you've been talking to Sera."

"Is it so offensive a notion to you that we help those that weren't born with a silver spoon in their mouths?"

"Do not put words into my mouth, Evelyn. This is a power grab for you. I've read Leliana's reports. You've never cared for servants or the little people until it was time to bed them."

She swallows her anger. "We're not talking about my past personal failings." And what if they were? Is she any bloody different than any other noble? No. "Don't resent me because I wasn't saving myself for a loveless arranged marriage."

Josephine flushes. "Why expect that when you could not even cherish your vows as a templar?"

"Oaths of celibacy are not mandated in the templar order. Why are we even having this conversation?" She hears her voice rise and sees others turning to look at her. "These discussions no longer suit us, Ambassador. I've heard your opinion. You advocate that I allow Celene to remain the empress of Orlais. Have you anything more to add in that regard? If not, I'm done with your petty condescension."

"Empress Celene has brought an unprecedented era of peace to Orlais. The country has a history of expanding its empire, often by force. Celene has chosen a new way. Surely you see the value in that. You may not give diplomacy the due credit it deserves but it works and it  _is_  working now. I fear you are walking down a dark path. The Inquisition has its enemies and we must be vigilant but  _this_ —that you are even  _considering_  it. It is not you."

As if she knows her. As if she ever tried. Everything Josephine has learned she's used against her. "Yet you didn't mind when I had the House of Repose take care of your family matter.  _That_  was personal and perhaps an ill use of their talents but  _this_? I will do what must be done for the Inquisition, and in turn, for Thedas." Others walk close, watching them. Evelyn takes her hand lightly and kisses her cheek and then the other. For a moment their eyes meet, lips close. She brings her lips to her ears. "I spoke with Leliana. I know what you suspect happened in Skyhold with the queen. You should have come to me. But you hid it, as you've hidden other things from me." Josephine furrows her eyebrows and turns her gaze away. "For what it's worth, you're wrong. Speak of it again, breathe a word of it to anyone, and you can pack your bags and return to Antiva with your pretty Otranto." She pulls back and kisses her hand. These hands touched her, healed her, made her feel safe. Evelyn smells her perfume and hates how it makes her doubt herself. "Ambassador."

She moves away from her. Leliana isn't much further. She shakes the effects of the conversation away. Josephine's presence is as intoxicating as any agent and leaves her thoughts muddled. "How's the intel gathering?"

"Spectacular. Orlais has really outdone itself. What we've learned will be beneficial in continuing to make allies."

"Happy to hear it." Evelyn looks at her for the first time that evening. Is this what she dressed like when she spent her days at court and played the Game? What was she like? Was she always this stunning? She'd failed to notice previously, perhaps because the spymaster was more inclined to gut her. "Leliana."

"Yes, Inquisitor?"

She recovers, focusing on the business at hand. "Whatever you have on me, whatever you collect, I don't want Josephine in it. I don't want anyone in it. Understood?"

"As you wish. I know everyone seeks your company tonight but I am hoping you'll spare a little time for me."

"I'd be a fool to say no."

"I see your smirk, Inquisitor." She smiles. "We get along better than we did, yes? I am pleased. But that conversation is for another time. This way." She inclines her head and Evelyn follows her out to the entrance area. Nobles are cloistered, gossiping, some already drunk. Leliana has a seat on the couch and Evelyn sinks beside her. "I have discovered another problem."

"Oh, grand. We don't have enough."

"The Empress has a new occult advisor. As you know, Vivienne was the first to bring legitimacy to the position. Before they were no better than magic jesters, sparking fires for Andraste." Evelyn can't read her tone, tell if it's sincere or mocking and can't decide how she feels about either interpretation. "Her name is Morrigan. I knew her years ago when we traveled with the Hero of Ferelden to battle the blight. She is a powerful apostate, one that has never set foot in any Circle."

Evelyn fights the chill ebbing at her. "What's the problem? I thought you hated Circles."

"I hate the idea of mages being leashed simply because of how they're born. This is different. This woman is powerful, cunning. She laughs at the Maker and the edicts of the Chantry. If she's here it's because she's up to something. She could prove troublesome, depending on how you decide to resolve the situation at hand."

"Whoever she is, we'll deal with her."

"If only it were that simple. It might prove useful to speak with her and find out what she's after. Notify me of what you find out. I'll have our agents keep their eyes and ears on her." She lets out a breath before smiling and looking at group of people that surround them. "Look at them. If they paid the Inquisition what they've paid for their attire this evening it'd be quite the boon. I'd nearly forgotten such lovely clothing existed."

"We don't have much use for them in Skyhold, I suppose." As much as she hated the parties, she was never opposed to opulence and has missed it. "Did you always dress up like this when you were in the court?"

She laughs softly. "This is not half so extravagant as what I wore when I was an active participant in the game. I thought it might be nice to pretend to be in this world again. How silly." The smile remains on her face but there's something in her eyes, a sort of resigned melancholy to her tone.

"Have you thought of leaving the Inquisition and returning to this?"

"No. The Inquisition is my priority. Returning to this nonsense might be fun—but irresponsible. There comes a time you must put the things you love behind."

Evelyn bites her tongue but doesn't flinch. Some minutes pass. "You know this lot better than anyone. What are they making of us? Of me?"

"The Inquisition has become powerful enough that they know better than to speak against us aloud. And you—they have many opinions, outside of being some backwater noble." So. She wasn't imagining having heard that. "Their opinions are shifting like the sands. You appear approachable but severe. Distant and amorous."

"That makes no sense."

"Everyone is watching you. Your every move, your every gesture. They have masks, you don't. So you must make your face into a mask." She giggles. "You must stop clenching your jaw so hard whenever you see Hawke and Cassandra. They're unsure of which woman in the Inquisition has your attention."

"Isn't it obvious?" Evelyn stands. "While there's a lull in the party I'm going to gather the others and do some of my own exploring. I want to know all I can before I make a decision."

"I'll have our agents ready with diversions should there be trouble. Be careful, Inquisitor."


	19. Wicked Hearts

"Oh, sure, this isn't suspicious at all. Why not gather Josephine and the rest of the advisors and we can all skulk the halls of Halamshiral together? Surely no one will notice the Inquisition moving into the palace's sealed quarters."

Evelyn appraises Hawke. "What do you suggest?" Hawke readies to speak. "Actually, I don't care." Sera chortles. Evelyn ignores her. "If we don't get to the root of who's behind this assassination, this evening will be for nothing."

"I recommend we split up," Cassandra's eyes flick about the space, keeping track of the guards. "The smaller the group the less attention we shall draw to ourselves."

"Although some of us are so fabulous—" Hawke starts—

"That we really can't help ourselves," Dorian finishes. The two look at one another. "Have I ever told you that I quite like you, Champion?" Evelyn bites her tongue as the two mages exchange grins. "So, how shall we part?"

"Cassandra and I will draw less attention," Hawke volunteers. "We'll do some digging and meet you in the grand ballroom once we've put things to bed." Evelyn stands up straighter, her back hard as iron. Hawke cocks another smile. "And don't worry your pretty little head about it if we're fashionably late. I promise, I'll take good care of Cassandra."

Evelyn is ready to protest when Dorian wraps his arms around her and Sera's shoulders. "It's settled then. My dear cousin and I will take care of the rest. It'll take both of us to keep this one out of trouble," he says with a wink to Sera. He brings his lips to Evelyn's ears. "You should have heard the riot act that Lady Montilyet read to me about keeping Sera in line! Smile, dear cousin, smile, or else Hawke will get the better of you."

Evelyn smiles. Her face feels as if it's stretched unnaturally. "Don't take too long," she tells Hawke.

"I'd hate to not be thorough," a roll of her eyes and she's on her way, Cassandra advising them to be careful and instructing to keep close watch over the Inquisitor before moving after her.

"That talk was about screwing, wasn't it?" Sera asks. "Nice! Good on Hawke, yeah? And Cassandra. Pretty." Evelyn's face is hot. "Let's get moving. Everyone here might be a right arse but the food's all right."

Dorian adjusts the collar of his robes. "I hate to ask, cousin, but what shall we do if we have an unfortunate run-in with the guards? A Tevinter magister and a knife-ear are bad enough," Sera nods enthusiastically, "but the imposter claiming to be the Herald of Andraste snooping around! Why, they'll assume you have suspect intentions."

"Are we dropping guards tonight?" Sera asks, the excitement creeping into her voice. "I brought a plaything," she lifts the side of her dress.

Evelyn sees a flash of her thigh and wonders what the plaything is meant to be before noticing the pointed dagger attached to it. She blinks. "No dead guards. We can't have anything coming back to bite the Inquisition in the ass."

"You say that as if it's always a bad thing," Dorian complains. "Very well. Dull and careful it is," he eases his fingers along his mustache. "I had hoped for an exciting evening. There's nothing worse than playing it safe."

"We don't have our weapons or our armor. If we don't play it safe, we're dead. I'd like to go a week without a stabbing." Evelyn moves ahead. No sword. No armor. If trouble comes up, she might have to remove her crown and just beat people to death with it. She has a bad feeling about all of this.

* * *

Leliana is all smiles. Josephine suspects she's plotting. She distances herself from her betrothed, leaving him with Yvette and heading towards the spymaster.

Things have been difficult between the two of them. She's out of sorts. Without Evelyn and the work to focus on, she has been wracked with loneliness. If she had chosen to dally with Blackwall instead, she might not be in this predicament. An engagement might have been the perfect segway out of the situation. Perhaps she'd be happy.

Leliana regards her approach. She confided to Evelyn that Josephine suspected Leliana to be involved in the death of the queen. Naturally the Inquisitor thinks she's keeping secrets. Was Leliana honest with Evelyn? And if so, why with Evelyn and not her?  _Perhaps because you were the first to turn your back on them._  She would not put it that way. But she isn't sure which way to put it. She is meant to be reason. Leliana is clever. Too clever. And Evelyn is brusque to considerable fault.  _I know you want this. I know you want me. You don't have to love me for this. You may be engaged but we're nobles. Engagements don't mean anything to us_. Evelyn was wrong. The engagement meant the end of them. It might have ended differently if she'd given in to her desires. But when has she ever done that? Josephine clears her throat. "I find you alone at last. I thought you and the Inquisitor might be attached at the hip all night."

A small laugh. "Not yet." What does  _that_  mean? A cock of her head. "No mask," Leliana tsks. "I'm surprised you didn't adopt the traditions of Halamshiral."

While her dress is to the style and extravagance of Orlais, she did not adopt the mask as is tradition. It has been years since she she played the game and wore a mask to match. "As the face of the Inquisition, I cannot very well hide it." No matter how she may want to.

"And Halamshiral is grateful. It's not only Lord Otranto who has been unable to keep his eyes off you."

She wishes everyone would stop bringing him up. Evelyn has managed to keep her eyes away. It is a shocking thing how quickly love is lost. But how could she dismiss what her family worked so hard to arrange when it is her fault that they didn't know not to arrange it? She misses Evelyn and feels foolish for it. Evelyn appears to have moved on. How sharply she cut away the warmth in her eyes, in her voice. She looks at her now as if she were a stranger. "I am not interested in their eyes," something about Leliana's smile brightens. "I do not appreciate being kept out of our strategy sessions."

"You haven't been kept out."

"Haven't I?"

"The Inquisitor has heard your words. If you recall, diplomacy and tact have never been her strong suit. You came to hold some influence, perhaps unduly, because of her fondness for you. But you are no longer involved in the game. Unless you intend to use your charms, it will be difficult to sway her."

"You suggest she only listened because we—because…" She'd hoped she'd imparted some wisdom on her.

"Yes." Leliana glances at her. "She was a templar. They're taught to respond decisively, not negotiate. They're not known as Thedas' strongest military because of their diplomatic skills."

"She wasn't a templar for so long."

"A decade is not long enough for you? Let's not forget the one time she heeded your advice, you were both nearly killed by the House of Repose. The Inquisitor favors aggression. As the Chantry does when it is threatened."

"Not always."

"Oh?" Her tone teases. Josephine knows what she hints at and decides she will not have the conversation with her. "You know the history of inquisitions. This cannot be so surprising."

"It feels different," she insists. "She treats me differently. You treat me differently." There's silence. "Do you deny it?"

"Relationships change when trust is tested."

"You no longer trust me?" She cannot blame Evelyn. She has hidden a great deal from her in efforts to remedy a situation before it reached her ears. It never works to her advantage.

"On the contrary. You remain stubbornly virtuous. However, you do not appear to have placed the same faith in myself and the Inquisitor."

"The Herald made mention of your conversation. I am… relieved that things were not as I suspected." Josephine looks at Leliana who looks ahead, her eyes on distant possibilities and equations. "I suppose apologies are in order."

"No, that's not necessary. This is war, Josephine. Difficult decisions will be made. Ugly things will happen. You will not always be pleased with me. Or with the Inquisitor. No doubt we will disappoint you. But everything we do, we do for Thedas. Remember that."

"All I ask is for moderation."

"Moderation has crushed empires. I'm afraid I can't make that promise. All I ask is that you trust us. We'll keep you out of it."

"When you asked me to join the Inquisition—I did not think it would be like this," she looks to the crowd, smiling, laughing, drinking, as if the world weren't falling apart outside the palace walls. "I wanted to help."

"You have."

"How? By collecting coin? By flattering nobles?" By bedding the Inquisitor?

"You've made us allies. You've gathered the coin that has allowed us to get this far. You are valuable not only to the Inquisition, but to myself and the Inquisitor. I'm sorry if we've made you feel otherwise. I've poured my life into this and … well. More than you know. I don't take perceived threats lightly. As for the Inquisitor… you know better than I. I know this has been difficult. If this is too much of a burden, you are free to go."

"You and Evelyn keep saying that. I'm beginning to think you do not want me near."

"Don't be silly, Josie. The trouble is we want you near and you ought to be kept at a distance."

"Well. I am not going anywhere."

"You have always been stubborn. So, now that that business is out of the way, do you want to fill me in on your Adorno? Have you taken him to bed yet?" She laughs at Josephine's sharp vocalization of her name. "He's handsome, yes? You might as well try him out before the marriage ceremony."

"It is my intention to get out of this betrothal. I just… I need time to find the proper way." Taking him to bed won't resolve anything.

"There's no one to return to. You and the Herald are no more. Is there a point in breaking the engagement? You remained to please your family, did you not?" Josephine bites her tongue. "Unless you hope to reconcile? How confounding you are. A romantic pragmatist. Whatever you do, Josie, I hope it makes you happy. Corypheus is loose on the world. There's more to this world than honor and decorum. Will it be enough to warm you if all of Thedas goes down in flames?"

"If it goes down in flames, I am certain the fires will be more than enough to keep me warm." Leliana laughs softly. "You and Evelyn act as if it were a simple thing to abandon everything I have ever worked for. To throw my principles to the wind. It is not easy, I assure you."

"Does it make you happy?"

"Are you the spymaster of the Inquisition to be happy?" Josephine takes a breath. "No. We do what we must because it's right." She looks at the mask in her hand, Yvette's. How easily she lives, how honestly. Unlike the others of Orlais, she lives her life behind the mask the same as she lives without. What a different woman she would be without her social obligations. Carefree and selfish. Would the Inquisitor care for her then? Her smile cuts into her face.

Leliana looks at her, gentle and piercing. "Enough talk. You've got nobles to charm—and I, a witch to hunt."

* * *

Their footsteps echo loudly. Hawke feels as if they've been meandering for hours in the dark. Cassandra stays close. Hawke thinks it's only to keep their voices from traveling.

"If you truly want for the Inquisitor and I to reconcile our differences, you might have allowed us some time together."

"I considered that but decided I'd rather keep you to myself. I didn't hear you protesting. Besides, this makes for a more balanced party. What if I need you to kick down a wall or something? I'm far too delicate for such violence."

"I do not know why this idea of me being some human shaped battering ram persists." She doesn't sound entirely offended. "What do you bring to the table?"

"Besides the obvious magic? I'm sure I can charm us out of whatever danger comes our way. That's more than Inquisitor Trevelyan can offer." Even Meredith had a better way with words.

"You're arrogant."

"So tell me I'm wrong." Cassandra is silent. They walk on, the voices of the party attendees growing dimmer by the moment. "I wish Varric were here." Saying his name makes every piece of her ache. She forces cheer into her voice. "Did I tell you about the time we went to Chateau Haine? Or did Varric? He would have told it better."

"He told me you killed Celene's dear friend, Duke Prosper."

"I didn't kill him. He fell off a cliff." Just as she'd wanted him to. "Looks like Varric really has has told you everything about me. How am I to keep you entertained?"

"I am sure you'll think of something. You do not lead a dull life. How are you handling things?" Hawke looks at her. "Varric," she says more quietly.

"I wake up each morning and… well. I wake up each morning. All things considered, I'd say that's a pretty good start."

"Do you blame me?"

They walk, Hawke observing the reflection of the moon cast on marble floors. She sighs. "In the beginning. Then I blamed the Inquisitor. Then Carver… even Varric. But it's my fault, isn't it? I left Kirkwall. You had questions. If I hadn't left… or if I'd moved faster… You wouldn't have had reason to take him. I think of it every night. Everyone I care for dies. What am I doing wrong? I must be doing something wrong."

"You are unlucky. That's all."

"You lost your parents and your brother."

"Yes. Long ago."

"And your apostate."

"As you lost yours," Cassandra reminds her icily. "I heard Varric's tale. But I wonder about your side."

"There isn't much of a story."

"Did you aim only to met punishment?"

Hawke smiles. "I wanted to prevent the Rite of Annulment from coming to pass. I wanted to prevent a war."

"And if you had it over to do again? Would you?"

"Would I kill him?" She blinks. "How can you ask me that?" If blood Mages hadn't killed Cassandra's brother she would not have turned to the Seekers and how many would be dead? She loved Anders. She killed him. She mourns him, still. "I don't know." She considers. "I don't know. It didn't stop the war. I didn't save anyone."

"You wanted to save the Circle."

"But I didn't." She smiles and fights to keep it steady. "I thought if I killed him it would be enough for Meredith. Doesn't that mean anything? Killing the one you love for the greater good? But it wasn't. The templars butchered the mages. Then we killed Orsino," her voice falters on the name, "and Meredith. The Circles rebelled and more mages died. I wonder, is this what he wanted?"

Cassandra grabs her arm to keep her from going further. "What did you want?"

Hawke looks down at Cassandra's hand and to her face. "I thought we were hunting for the Empress' secrets, Seeker. Why so interested in getting to know me? Are you trying to stall me so the Inquisitor can let her die?"

"No. Stop that." How cross she is. "Every time I think I understand you, you confound me. I cannot make heads or tails of you and it drives me mad. So. Answer the question. Do you approve of his actions? Do you think it was right?"

"I don't approve of his actions. I do think it was right." Hawke watches her eyes shift. "I'm sorry. I said I wouldn't lie to you. Do you know how exhausting it is, when you're an apostate? The lies you tell, even to yourself? I wanted mages to be free. And not the usual way. Not through death, like Bethany. After she died—and it was only my existence that put my family into jeopardy—do you know how guilty it made me feel? To want it? But is it so awful to want freedom?" Anders wanted that. For both of them. For all the mages. She felt so alive when she was with him, hopeful. Until she plunged knife into his neck. "Would you keep me locked away?"

Cassandra kisses her. Hawke loses her balance, hitting a cold marble wall, their lips locked for an instant before its broken and Cassandra pulls away, guilt in her eyes. Her hand slips from Hawke's face. A hot flush replaces her contact. Hawke swallows thickly.

"We should hurry up," Cassandra moves ahead of her.

Hawke runs a tongue along her lower lip, tries to get her bearings and follows.

* * *

"Do you think they're making out somewhere?" Sera asks. "With all the nooks and crannies here! Playing around in nooks and crannies, yeah?" She darts behind a curtain before exiting, letting the material drape over her as if it were a dress.

"Probably," Dorian confirms. "Go on, get out of there." He herds her out as if she were a cat.

The Winter Palace is quiet and Evelyn wonders what they're doing. Surely there are better ways of uncovering dirt than searching an estate that's several times the size of Skyhold.

"Look," Sera waves what looks like a stone brick to her. "It's another elf deer halla thing."

"You could have just said Halla," Dorian points out. "Though I must say, you have a remarkable talent for ferreting these out."

"What, cause I'm elfy?" She tosses it to the side.

"These items are enchanted," Dorian picks it up and shows it to Evelyn. "Perhaps you have a touch of magical inclination."

"Shut it. I don't want nothing to do with that. Neither does Harold."

"Should we bring them with us?" Dorian asks.

"What the void are we going to do with them?" Evelyn takes it from him. It weighs as much as a sword. "Leave it."

He shrugs and follows after her. The royal wing is trimmed in gold and unguarded. Odd. Did Celene's would be assassins pay them off? Or are their bodies stuffed behind a curtain somewhere? Maybe the best course of action would be to remain near Celene. They only came to warn her. This business of hunting down secrets is better suited to Josephine and Leliana. She scowls thinking of the ambassador.

Was she wrong not to be patient? Should she have stood beside her as she has throughout the years for every noble woman who thought her fitting for bed but not to introduce to anyone as suitable company? Why did she think Josephine different? Because she proclaimed love? No one's ever said they love her. Not her father. Not her brothers. No one. Maybe if her mother had not died. But what if she hadn't? Would she have kept the words to herself or would they have tumbled out of the rest of her family? There's no point thinking about it—yearning for what she never had, lamenting what was only a flicker in the dark. She has the Maker. To ask for more is selfish.

"Cousin!" Dorian wraps an arm around her shoulder. She's getting tired of him doing that, so why does she fight to keep from resting against him. "You all right?" She stares at him and then nods. "I think the Royal Wing is a lost cause. Our dear Sera had a marvelous idea. She suggested we investigate the 'elfy' quarters."

"They've got all the dirt," Sera says. "And they think I'm like them, so they'll say, yeah? All the bits these earwigs want kept hidden."

"It couldn't hurt," Evelyn agrees. "But she can't go on her own." She sighs. The elven quarters are in the opposite direction.

"Agreed!" He looks at her. "Oh. You mean me, don't you?" He crosses his arms and studies her cautiously. "I'm not sure it's a wise idea. There are assassins hidden about." He shakes his head. "No. The answer is no. We can't separate."

She laughs. "I didn't know you were such a mother hen. I've gotten out of Crestwood and I've gotten out of the Fade."

"Need I remind you of your condition when you 'got out' of both?"

"I'll be fine."

He swears under his breath. "At least take Sera's plaything."

"No killing," she reminds him. It would be easy, no question, but very bad for the Inquisition to be caught killing at the Winter Palace during peace talks. "They'll notice soon enough that we're all gone. So go on. We're wasting time."

She moves towards the darkness and away from them, glancing back to see them standing there unhappily. She waves and moves on. What happens if she can't stop this plot tonight? Worse yet, what if by stopping it, she triggers some greater evil? What if she becomes Hawke? Thinking about it won't resolve things. Talking about it won't resolve things. She moves forward.

* * *

"I never thought you'd take such interest in a duelist," Yvette comments. She's on her third glass of champagne and quickly catching pace with Josephine who remains remarkably clearheaded.

"What?"

"Ah, ha! I knew you were angry." Josephine observes her cautiously. "You only snap at me like that when something's gotten under your skin. Do you not like that he duels?"

"He's Antivan. He duels." In any case she thinks 'interest' is too strong a word.

" _We're_  Antivan. We do not. Although, I have already asked him to teach me and he has agreed! Oh," she swoons, practically draping herself over the railing to the ballroom dance floor. "How romantic! Don't you think it's romantic?"

She's irritated and picks up a flute of champagne from an elf that looks at the end of his wits. Duels, on the one hand, are silly, competitive events. They're violent and unnecessary. Yet, she cannot deny the flair, the style, the art and grace to them. Long ago she dreamt of such things, before she left a man dead at the bottom of the steps. Had she not removed his mask would she still play? Or would she be long dead, outsmarted by a superior opponent? How could she ever hold her own against someone like Leliana or Vivienne? She couldn't. "Perhaps…" Though she thinks Yvette is dangerous enough without being taught swordwork and can't imagine anything romantic about her younger sister besmirching the family name.

"Perhaps! Oh, you're always like this. Would it kill you to have an opinion? You're Antivan! And you're as colorful as a Fereldan stew. I cannot imagine the scandal I would get into if I were in your position. Lord Adorno Otranto! He's so handsome. And Josie…! The Inquisitor!" She squeezes her arm so tightly, Josephine worries it'll snap. "Is it true? Oh, you must tell me everything!"

"The first thing I would say," she hisses, "is not so loud." She looks around but no one seems to be paying them any attention. Josephine is unsure whether to be relieved. "The second thing is—," she sighs, exasperated. "You must not believe every little thing anyone says."

"But she's not just anyone." Yvette looks at her face. Josephine downs half the flute, her cheeks flushing. "Do not tell me it's the champagne." She takes a sharp breath in when Josephine makes no response. "So it is true! I cannot believe it!"

"You just spoke as if you were convinced!"

"I have never been prouder to have you for a sister. Ambassador this and that—what nonsense! I cannot believe you, of all people, managed to seduce the Inquisitor. Can I please tell Carlotta? Please?  _Please_?"

Carlotta? She might as well be the Antivan country crier. "No! Of course not. And what do you mean  _I_  of all people?"

"Do not be angry, Josephine. You're just so… so… traditional. You don't have that artistic, romantic streak father and I have coursing through our veins. You say it makes us foolish but I have no regrets. I lost my virginity before you did, I'm sure of it. But you are content to play with politics and dolls and allow life to pass you by."

"You are making a great many assumptions," she stammers. "In any case, even if it  _were_  true, why would you presume I seduced her?"

"You do have some charm, sister. And she's a political figure. That's the equivalent of a mark in your world, yes? You do not cut her purse, no, but you say the right thing, you get something far better." Josephine frowns. "What was she like? Is she Andrastian? Was she odd afterward? Did she pray and apologize? Did she need a bath?" She grimaces.

"What?"

"I had that with a brother once. Oh, not ours. A lay brother." The things she says as if they were nothing! Josephine is flustered and blames it on the champagne. "They're so curious. Did you know mother wanted to arrange this marriage for me? I had not seen Lord Otranto for many years. I might have given her a different answer!" she jabs her side playfully.

"You knew about this?"

"For months."

"You could have stood to mention it to me."

"Maybe… but what's the point? You never say no to family, Josephine. You're the favorite. You know, I sometimes think it  _would_  be nice to help the family in some way—contribute. But you and mother seem to think I'm a lost cause. And even if Mother tried to give me some influence, you would not allow it. You love your control." A careless shrug and a bright smile. "But that leaves more time for my art and boys! I'm happy. Who wants to be the favorite if being trapped to Mother's whims is the trade?"

"I do not think that's a respectful way to speak of it. Mother and Father have sacrificed much for your silly whims."

"But you only think they're silly because you don't care for them. They're far less silly than your diplomatic …" she waves a hand as if she can't be bothered to give the absurdity a name. "You should have brought a mask tonight. Want to borrow mine? Put it on, have fun with your Inquisitor in private. That's what I would do."

"I'm not you."

"Too bad."

Dorian and Sera return. Josephine watches them. Dorian pulls something out of Sera's hair and looks about the ballroom, aghast, seeming to relax when no one else has spied them. Didn't Evelyn leave with them? Where is she? Lost in the halls of the palace? Playing in the shadows with some noble woman? She still holds Yvette's mask in her hand but hands it back to her.

She will not give in to temptation. Not tonight. As if summoned by the mere thought of 'infidelity', Otranto returns. He slips an arm around her waist. Josephine tolerates it, biting the inside of her cheek. Hawke and Cassandra have returned. They move to Dorian and Sera. Cassandra quickly shakes her head before storming out of the ballroom, Hawke moving after her.

Where is Evelyn? Josephine's fingers curl absently over her heart. She's all right. She's sure of it.

* * *

Evelyn looks out the window and to the Harlequin twisted below. So, the bloody Venatori have infiltrated the palace. For Corypheus?

The elven woman is shaken and spills Briala's story without prompting: Briala has known the Venatori are here and is allowing the death of the elven servants to prove her point? Better her bargaining position against the empress and Gaspard? Evelyn didn't know elves could behave so much like humans. She mentally strikes the woman off the list of contenders for the throne.

"I'll need you to tell everyone what you just told me. If I ask. If the time is right."

"You saved me," the woman says shakily. "I'll tell them anything you want."

She offers her collection of master keys, no doubt confiscated by Briala or one of her agents and runs off. Evelyn looks out the window again. The Harlequin is gone. She pulls away from the window and studies her surroundings. Darkness and moonlight.

Perhaps she shouldn't have sent the others away. She moves through dark corridors, prying and pressing at doors. Exploring. This is her first return to civilization in some time—though she isn't sure that Orlais counts.

She should be drinking and taking some bored wife to bed somewhere. That's all she's ever done at parties. It's all she did for years. Before the templars. After the templars. It was quiet in the tower. She was watched and she behaved. The same could not be said for all templars and mages. One day she rebelled.

She unlocks a door and wanders inside. Aromatic perfume water fills her nose. Intoxicating scents. Enough gold and jewels to buy them a new Skyhold with an Inquisition to match.

Evelyn shuts the door and peruses the room. There's stationary and fine brushes, bone, delicately engraved. Letters. A locket. From Briala…? So, the rumor is no rumor. What does it mean to be with a woman who is so beneath you? What does it feel like? To be it and know it—and know that they know it? She blinks her eyes and eases the trinket into her pocket.

This could be used against Celene. No doubt dallying with some elf would be enough to smear her reputation, perhaps destroy it entirely. This is a different sort of warfare. The kind that Leliana and Josephine are well acquainted with. Less bloody, more vicious. Her stomach turns.

She sits on the corner of the bed and lies down. If only she could go to sleep and get this party over with. The ride here was well over a week. She isn't looking forward to the return trip to Skyhold. She can't remember the last time she was able to rest.

She closes her eyes, only for a moment. Already her body is floating away. The first bell announcing the return to the grand ballroom rings.

She opens her eyes. A woman at the foot of the bed. That Harlequin from before. Its makeup is smeared, white and red running together, caked with blood. Her daggers are bared. They stare at each other. "You kicked me out the window," the woman says.

"And here you are, bothering me again."

They move at the same time, the assassin jumping, daggers burying into the mattress where Evelyn previously lay. The assassin removes them just as quickly, sending feathers floating through the air before taking a swipe. Evelyn lifts an arm defensively. The blade slices into her and she hears herself gasp. She's not used to being without her armor. The Harlequin smiles, her teeth coated red. Paint? Blood? Did she actually fall out the fucking window? How is she moving so fast?

The Harlequin lunges and Evelyn sidesteps. A vase shatters, spilling flowers and water. Evelyn's foot twists, blood drips on the floor as the Harlequin stabs again. No room to maneuver, nowhere to hide. She lifts a hand and the dagger punches through it. Pain flares through her leaving her momentarily lightheaded, reducing her vision to flashes of color. Maybe Dorian was right and splitting up was a terrible idea.

The Harlequin grins and pushes the dagger, trying to bury it in Evelyn's throat. The tip is there, breaking her skin when Evelyn twists. The Harlequin spills forward, slamming into the wall. Evelyn yanks her hand free of the dagger with a growl. Shit. She can't move her fingers. The Harlequin is on the move again. Is this how the Inquisition ends? The Herald killed by a bloody jester? Maybe the Maker does have a sense of humor.

Maybe Leliana would appreciate this. She'll tell her later. If she lives that long. Another swing of her daggers. Evelyn ducks, sidesteps and curls her left fist. At least the hand that makes her relevant is in working order for the moment. She jabs up and hears a crack.

The Harlequin's jaw comes loose. Maker. Harlequin: five, Evelyn: one. What manner of agent is this? She still comes after her. Maybe she should have taken the halla statue after all—at least she would have had something to bludgeon this thing to death with. Two more swipes and Evelyn gets a cut on her shoulder, another on her leg. She's getting tired, both of them sweating and panting. Is this all she is without her armor? Without a weapon? Shouldn't she be stronger?

The Harlequin drives her back and Evelyn slips in the puddle of water and blood, crashing down on the broken vase pieces. The crown falls from her head and rolls away. Pain stabs into her back. Her left hand fumbles but finds no purchase, no hint of weapon. Well. This is stupid. She's stupid. She's going to die. Killed by a jester. Her face flushes with humiliation. The woman straddles her, blades crossed at Evelyn's neck. "Cat got your tongue?" Evelyn asks. She hardly recognizes her voice. The Harlequin scowls. "Ah. Forgot. Broken jaw."

The Harlequin punches her. Her lip splits. Blood runs out of her nose. Josephine would have something to say about her condition.  _Honestly, Lady Trevelyan, one does not simply walk into the grand ballroom a bleeding mess. Adorno would never do this._

Her eyes water. She's still so bloody angry. Her fingers slip beneath the bed and stab into the familiar crown. She grabs it, focusing, putting all the strength she can muster into that swing. She will not bloody die here. She will not surrender the Inquisition for  _this_. The blow lands, the crown, sharp as fangs burying into the Harlequin's neck. The woman gurgles, dropping the blades at Evelyn's neck and trying with all her might to remove Evelyn's hands where she keeps them, circled around her neck, burying the crown's thorns deeper. Evelyn holds tightly to her, refusing to relinquish her as the blood pumps out of her, onto her and the woman slumps to the side, dead.

Evelyn blinks, looks around. The room has been turned upside down. There's blood everywhere. She can't feel her face. Her hand and back and arms all feel as if they're on fire. She shoves the woman off her and gets to her feet, dropping to her knees almost immediately. She takes gasping breaths. She's fine. She's fine. No potions, but she'll be fine. She's survived worse than this.

She can't think of anything now but she's sure of it.

She listens for a bell, through her broken wheezing. Josephine made mention of that before they came here. One bell, fine. Two bells, better. Three bells, bad. She hears ringing but isn't sure if it's in her head. She tries to dampen the blood running out of her hand and nose and leg and arm. She swallows and takes a breath. She fumbles with her pockets. She has to calm. She drinks a small vial of lyrium. It's still in her bleeding hand when Hawke and Cassandra walk in the room.

* * *

The breath goes out of Cassandra as soon as she sights her. She wonders if it's coincidence that she's with Hawke any time something happens to the Inquisitor. Maybe the Champion is a bad omen, bad luck. Her jaw clenches too hard.

Hawke takes her arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "She'll be fine. All right?" She looks to the Harlequin and then to Evelyn. "Was her act that bad?"

Evelyn's eyes are alert and hazy at the same time. She's covered in blood. She curls a fist to the ground and pushes to her knees, reclines against the wall before sitting again. "Shut… up."

"When I get my hands on Dorian," Cassandra says. "He had one job!" She starts to kneel but Evelyn shakes her head. Points at the blood. Hawke kneels anyway.

"I'm fine. I just need a minute," Evelyn's voice is even despite how strained her face is. "I need to get back. I can't be late."

"If it's any consolation, I'm sure no one misses you. Especially that Harlequin." Hawke looks her over. "Looks like her dagger work was a cut above the rest." She looks to Cassandra for approval, the jester begging for applause.

Ugh. "Now is not the time for your jokes," Cassandra snaps. The light in Hawke's eyes dims and she lowers her head, looking sorry about it. Both she and Evelyn seem ill at ease. She shouldn't have kissed her. Maker, what was she thinking. Nothing. Only that she wanted to. She should have never left the Inquisitor's side. Her anger could have cost the Herald her life. It might yet cost her her life.

Evelyn ignores them, either not hearing their squabble or not deigning it worthy of attention. "I found a locket. Briala's. The Empress saved it. Leliana should know. The Ambassador. We can use it." A grimace and she lifts an arm. Cassandra sees muscle tissue beneath her sleeve.

"We also found evidence of the Empress' misdeeds," Cassandra says. "There was a man tied to the bed—" She shakes her head. That doesn't matter now. She will not be drawn into this political nonsense while the Inquisitor bleeds. Evelyn gives Hawke the side eye, withdrawing from Hawke's hands, slapping them away. "Help her, Hawke."

"I'm trying."

"No, you're not." Cassandra touches Evelyn's face. "You're not healing her."

"She's not letting me. She's using her templar shit to shut me down." Hawke says. Cassandra looks at her and then to Evelyn. "As I've said, I'm piss at healing but even  _this_  I can do. This isn't what it was with you. But if it was, I won't do that again. Not for her." The Champion and Inquisitor glare at each other. Is that a glimmer of a smile on the Inquisitor's lips?

"I'm not doing anything," Evelyn says. "You're just a shit healer."

"I promise you it's not me," Hawke insists.

Cassandra closes her eyes and tries to find a measure of patience. She takes a breath and takes the bloody locket from Evelyn and gives it to Hawke. "Get this to Leliana or Josephine. And for the love of all that is holy find me a healer that she trusts." Hawke is getting ready to argue. Cassandra sees the storm building in her eyes. Funny how she now knows these little things about her. "Go. Now."

"I can't say no to you," she stands and looks at Evelyn. "Is this what strength is to you? What leadership is? Running off on your own? Drowning yourself in lyrium so the big bad mages can't hurt you? Is it bloody working yet?"

Cassandra glares at her. "Hawke. Not now. Do what I have asked. Please." Hawke goes. There are clear lines on Evelyn's cheeks, free of blood, but revealing the bruising and swelling beneath. "You were not like this before. What happened?" Evelyn stares straight ahead. Cassandra looks to the Harlequin. The Inquisitor's crown is lodged in her neck. Cassandra retrieves it, getting blood on herself in the process. Wonderful. Josephine will kill her. The woman did bring those garish red military uniforms in case of an emergency. Perhaps they will do. She stoops next to Evelyn.

"Help me to my feet. I need to get back to the ballroom."

"No. You will do more harm than good at this rate. We need you healed. I do not abide this foolishness, but even I know making an appearance like this would do irreversible damage to the Inquisition. How did this even happen?" Evelyn tells her. "So, this hunt for secrets and leverage has led to this. You should not have gone alone. Why do you keep everyone at bay?" She takes a blanket and rips it, best as she can, into ribbons to make tourniquets for Evelyn. She wraps her arm, her leg, her hand. "I know I have ignored you. I have not… known… how to sort what was compromised in order to keep me alive. You worried me Inquisitor. But instead of staying at your side, I left it. I asked you to be open with me and I rejected what you said. I am sorry."

Evelyn's chin quakes. She licks her lips and for a long time Cassandra thinks she'll guard her silence. Eventually she speaks. "There was a time… that I hoped I could become somebody else. At first I wanted to be like Hawke. Then, I wanted to be like you. For a while, I was doing all right." She blinks her eyes. "We believe in the Maker. He chose us. So why isn't this easier?" her voice is hardened as she struggles to get the words out. "Why does all of it feel like a fight? I know it's stupid. I know I have the Maker and an army and… people who…  _could_  be friends. But I still feel so alone. I have to do all of this on my own. The hard. The bad. It should be me." There's more, but she bows her head and doesn't say it.

Cassandra wipes away the blood from her face, that despite the words, remains still and unaffected. "You are not alone."

"How on point, Cassandra." Leliana remarks, moving around into the room. She looks around the room, her gaze analytical, careful to lift the hem of her dress and avoid the blood. "Not as careful as we'd hoped, Inquisitor. Are you all right?" Evelyn nods yes while Cassandra shakes her head no. "We ran into Hawke."

"We?" Cassandra asks.

"She said the Inquisitor needed a mage she could trust. I don't trust her as far as I can throw her. But she should suffice—for the time being."

Another entity walks into the room. Slim, pale, with golden eyes and raven hair. A velvet dress. Scorn in her eyes. "Well, well." Her eyes set on the Inquisitor. "What have we here?"


	20. Wicked Words

Josephine fears what she will find but forces herself to go, the bloody locket clutched in her hand.

Her breath travels too long. Her heart pounds deafening. She walks for years until she arrives at the room in the Royal Wing. Dim light spills from it. Hawke utters a warning but Josephine doesn't heed it. So much blood. Another slipper dipped in it. Is it Evelyn's? The room spins momentarily. "Where is she?" Josephine asks but Hawke is as puzzled as she is. "You said it was a minor altercation."

"I wasn't actually here for it."

"Where were you?"

"What?"

"It seems to me you are always near or  _not_  when some tragedy befalls her. She is the Inquisitor, why were you not guarding her? That is your one duty as a member of the Inquisition. You are no longer Champion. So what were you doing?"

Hawke crosses her arms gingerly. "Mee-ow. I suppose you wouldn't take kindly if I said, 'your mother'?" Hawke's face pales in response to hers though her eyes grow more defiant. "We agreed it was best to split up."

"Naturally you agreed with such a poor idea." She scoffs. "It is no wonder Kirkwall fell." The words strike and Josephine is vindicated, happy to have hurt her, malicious and powerful because she's never felt more helpless.

"Oh, how original. Hawke screwed it up in Kirkwall. I've never heard that one before. Don't bite my head off because the Herald might have died and you're upset you didn't break your engagement off."

"What is going on here?" Cassandra asks. She comes from a corner of the room that Josephine hadn't known was there. The only thing Josephine feels is shame burning into her. "I thought I heard—Josephine? What are—"

Josephine goes to her. There is blood on Cassandra's clothing. The iron stench of the room fills her senses. The shame is forgotten. "You're going to have to change," she blurts out. Cassandra looks at her as if she's grown another head and looks past her to Hawke. Josephine doesn't look back, hesitant to see what expression Hawke might be making. "You cannot attend—" she takes a breath. "Where is the Inquisitor?"

"Forget about our special snowflake," Hawke says. Josephine glares back at her. "There was a body here. It's gone now. I can only assume that's Leliana and Morrigan's work?"

"You're right. It would seem they have a talent for that sort of business." Cassandra looks to the floor. "Although I'm not sure how we will rid ourselves of all this blood."

"Don't look at me," Hawke wrinkles her nose looking at the mess. "I don't clean bloodbaths, I make them."

"Will you two—" Josephine raises her voice. The locket is digging into her hand. She takes a breath to steady herself. "Where is Evelyn?" She doesn't wait. What's the point in waiting? She has spent too long waiting. She moves around Cassandra, ignoring her objection and going into the small corridor. There's another room at the end of the hallway. She walks swiftly. The door is only slightly ajar. She pushes it open.

Evelyn turns her head sharply. Startled. Her leather chest piece has been removed. She leans over the sink, a battered, bleeding hand, attached to a bleeding arm, held to her side, fingers delicately digging into her ribcage, as if it were only a stitch from running. Her face is bloody. Her torso is bloody. Yet her face is not bruised or swollen. That's something. Yet she has difficulty breathing.

Soon Cassandra is at the door. She looks between them and Josephine recognizes the look on her face. 'Should I get rid of her?' it says. "You shouldn't be here." Evelyn says. It takes Josephine a moment to realize she's talking to her. Cassandra remains, ready, Josephine knows, to drag her out if necessary. Josephine can only implore with her eyes. Evelyn holds the gaze for moments before bowing her head and sighing tiredly. "Leave us."

Josephine shuts the door behind her the instant Cassandra leaves, terrified that Evelyn will change her mind and beckon Cassandra back to remove her. They look at one another warily. Josephine goes to her. She doesn't think. She reaches for her.

Evelyn pulls back. "Don't!" Josephine's heart leaps to her throat. It shouldn't hurt. She's not the injured party. "You'll get blood on your dress."

Oh. Yes. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Josephine hovers close but doesn't touch her. There's a hole in her hand. Her pants are ripped, blood splattered to them. Mercifully they're black and yet, Josephine already knows she won't be able to attend the grand ballroom in this manner. She is grateful she brought alternative uniforms to represent the Inquisition. This is not what she had in mind. "You need a healer."

"I've had one."

How is that possible? She looks a terror. Evelyn takes a breath and stands taller. She pushes the water faucet on with the bottom of her palm. She begins wiping the blood from her face, from her arms and winces. The arm remains swollen and bleeding. Her shoulder is much the same and bruised. "Let me help you." It isn't until she says it that she realizes she's begging. She's said these words before and Evelyn, though unhappy, has accepted her offer.

"I can wipe blood away, Ambassador."

Josephine watches her do so. Her stomach knots. Her throat is always too tight around her. Once again she's helpless. She cannot attack her, as she did with Hawke, to feel better. Should she confess her love again? Why would the Inquisitor care for the love of a cowardly woman? "Must you continue to call me that?" Her voice is so quiet Josephine isn't sure it can be heard over the running water.

"What else should I call you?" Blood fills the sink. Josephine's lips thin. "I'm the Herald of Andraste and you're the Ambassador to the Inquisition. Those are our titles. That's who we are now. That's all we are now." A second bell rings. Similar words have been said before but never have they felt so concrete. "You ought to return to the ballroom and do some damage control."

"I will not leave you."

"You've already left me." Her eyebrows dip. Josephine sees the crown sitting at the edge of the sink, wet with blood, covered in… she goes unsteady and grabs the sink to steady herself. "Cassandra mentioned you brought uniforms? Have someone bring them. I can't go out in this."

"I can bring them."

"No." Her hand continues to bleed. There's a dot of blood on her neck, a small laceration. Who was this healer? "You must get back. There are too many of us missing. I can't beat them into ignoring my absence. You might be able to distract them. You're good with these crowds." She winces, shifting the weight to her other leg. "I'll meet you there. We can discuss the business of Ambassador Briala and the Empress."

Business. That's what they've been reduced to. She tries to gather her thoughts. "We can use the Empress' relationship with the ambassador against her." It had never been her intention to blackmail the Empress but if it keeps her alive and puts the Inquisition in a stronger position, she can't argue against it.

"Yes," Evelyn agrees with a painful smile. "We can."

Josephine tries to meet her eyes, tries to get more, stay longer but Evelyn's eyes are already glassy and distant, her presence forgotten. Suppressed.

* * *

Cullen delivers the uniform and keeps his back to the Inquisitor as she changes. He's shaky and pale. It's been like this for some time. Not having it makes him itchy. It makes him twitch. The other templars still take it. He doesn't begrudge them that. If anything, maybe in times like these, it's best they do. And yet… He never anticipated the Inquisitor would return to something so addictive, something she'd escaped.

She seems to be managing. It makes him crave it all the more. Yet he is not blind. He has seen the sheen to her eyes, an air of detached manner. The way her fingers caress the pouch at her side, eager, he knows, for her next dose. Does she hear the singing? He misses that. He hears other things now. Sees things from time to time that aren't there.

"I'm decent now, Commander." He turns to face her. "How do I look?"

He doesn't see any blood. That's a fair start. The Inquisitor is attractive in her own odd way. Her eyes are deepset and startlingly grey. She appears to have an innocence, that given her history, he isn't sure is there. He knows she killed her templar comrades to save a mage. Once upon a time he would have found that unforgivable and had her hanged. Given her experiences in Crestwood, would she respond the same as she did that day? Would she have joined her brothers and sisters in killing that mage? "You look good. Perhaps you can draw away the attention of the Orlesian women and I can have a break for the rest of the night. Erm. Inquisitor."

She smiles tiredly. "I doubt that. You're far prettier than I am." He takes the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wraps it around her bleeding palm. He tries to steady his hands but they shake. She pretends not to notice and mutters a thank you.

"It's a good thing Josephine had the foresight to bring extra uniforms."

"She's clever."A beat. "And more. I'll give her that." He detects a hint of sadness in her words. "Shall we get back?"

"That's probably best. Before we return." He takes a moment to consider his words. "I'm sure… Cassandra has spoken to you of my situation. With… the lyrium," he says more quietly. There's a long silence and then she nods. He isn't, in fact, sure that she has spoken with her. The women have been estranged but it's too late to back out now. "I've noticed you've begun ingesting it again. I must say I think it's unwise and I think you should stop while you can. While it's easier." Her lips thin but she watches and waits. "I know Crestwood was difficult. And while I can't say I know what you went through—I think I have a similar understanding. I was held hostage by blood mages in the Fereldan Circle over a decade ago. That along with the desire demons… it was. It changed me. I was afraid and I became fanatical. That fear led to turning my head in Kirkwall when I shouldn't have. It allowed me to think that mages were less than. As a result… I know everyone blames Hawke and Meredith, but I share some of the blame for what happened in Kirkwall. And now look at what's become of Thedas. We mustn't allow our fear to twist us into monsters. We must face it head on and clear headed."

"Are you saying I've been twisted into a monster, Commander?"

"No. No." Not yet, anyway.

"Then you're saying I'm not clearheaded."

"I know how it makes you feel. As if you have the light of the Maker inside of you. It makes you fearless and calm because it strips you of reason and compassion. When we are faltering… that feels like a blessing. But lyrium isn't the answer. If you take it long enough you won't answer to yourself or the Maker. You'll answer to the lyrium, everything else be damned. And in the end it will make you mad." He sighs. "I apologize. There are other things at work here. But I thought it important. It's true the lyrium strengthens our skills—but you don't need it. It won't fill you forever." Her jaw tightens. "And that's all I had, Inquisitor."

She slips a white dress glove on over her kerchiefed hand. She tries to flex it but her fingers barely move. The crown sits gleaming on her head. "Thank you, Commander. I'll take that under advisement."

* * *

"You're not pulling," Leliana grunts. Her grip on the Harlequin's wrist is getting slippery. The sweat and blood make it difficult to drag the body. Morrigan lets the Harlequin's arm drop to the floor. Leliana exhales, blowing red strands back from her face. "So once again I'm doing all the work while you stand back and try to look pretty."

"I don't have to try," Morrigan replies. "As I recall you spent your time with your nose buried in books and singing lullabies to birds and little woodland creatures while I made dinner. This is your Inquisitor's mess. Let her clean it up."

"Still thinking only of yourself. I wish I could say I was surprised."

"You don't wish any such thing. I'd long be dead before you climbed down from that high horse." She draws a hand over her forehead and grabs the Harlequin's hand, giving it a hard pull. Leliana resumes pulling the body. "It would have been wise to slip the body onto some kind of sheet and pull it."

"The sheets were bloody. We're trying to create less mess, not more."

"Then let me burn the body so we may be done with it. Do not play innocent. You know what's at risk tonight." Leliana says nothing. "I am surprised. No lute and little song about the virtues of saving innocent lives?"

"Celene is not innocent. You're clever. You know that. And if you were truly so indignant as you pretended with the Inquisitor's refusal to promise you any course of action tonight, you wouldn't be helping now. You don't care about Celene. You don't care about the Inquisition. If you did you would have healed the Herald, really healed her, instead of that pathetic job you did. You're here because you want something. You left her crippled to leave yourself a window for a better option."

Morrigan looks at her then turns her attention back to the body and pulls. The halls are long and dark. The light seems too far away. Odd being back with this Witch of the Wilds. They worked together long ago, when they were much younger. More innocent, perhaps. Leliana would catch glimpses of the witch's vulnerability in their travels together, the wall that fell over her when they passed through larger towns and here she is, stalking the halls of Halamshiral as if they were her own. Wearing the bloody dress she ridiculed her for suggesting.

Morrigan cocks an eyebrow suspiciously. "What are you smiling at?"

Leliana doesn't answer and they tug the body into what appears to be a storage room. They catch their breath and Leliana is secretly grateful when Morrigan lights a torch. She examines her dress for any hints of blood and discovers none. Perhaps she has become too skilled at the game of blood. "You may burn her now, if you wish."

"In this small store room filled with crates and all manners of flammable items. How clever—"

"Or not. Do what you wish. The matter was getting it out of Celene's private quarters. If you'd prefer to drag it back on your own and set it ablaze there, be my guest."

She leaves the storeroom. A moment later she hears the door close and Morrigan's steps following behind her. Leliana doesn't slow but Morrigan catches up just the same. The woman's always been unnatural. It's more than the magic running through her veins. Perhaps it's that wildness that came from being brought up by a creature like Flemeth. "So this is what you look like when you're not out in the muck regaling us with tales of Orlais. I expected more plumage."

"Says the woman who strode about for months with feathers embroidered into her robes. Funny." She doesn't laugh. "This is not what I look like. I am in costume. Same as you. Same as everyone."

"I should like to return to Celene."

"You're not genuinely worried about her. You're not capable."

"Perhaps, but as you are so inclined to point out, I am worried about my own skin and if whatever party is leading the Venatori tonight succeeds in killing her, it is I who shall take the blame. I would prefer to avoid that—being as I am such a selfish woman."

Leliana chuckles. "I do not believe it is so simple as that, Morrigan. But it's a start. The Inquisitor had a vision—"

She groans. "And here I'd hoped you'd outgrown such nonsense—"

"That the assassination of the Empress could throw Thedas into chaos. Whether I believe it or not is irrelevant. Corypheus cannot be allowed to succeed in his plans. It's been over ten years. Tell me you've found something,  _anything_  to care about in all that time." Morrigan's eyes soften. Unexpected. "Then think of them and help us stop this. We have an agreement, yes?"

Morrigan grits her teeth. "Yes. A temporary alliance."

* * *

The grand ballroom is sweltering. It's possible she has a fever. Morrigan stooped in front of her, looked at her as if she understood her and was unimpressed.  _After all these years, Morrigan, you're still unable to do anything out of the goodness of your heart._  Leliana said.  _I'm only pleased to find that you're as sanctimonious as ever,_  Morrigan replied. But she had looked puzzled.

She had not liked Evelyn's skulking in the Empress' chambers and had told her so. When she refused to answer her intentions for the Empress, Morrigan tsked, healed her face of her injuries and stood.  _I could do more but until I know you're motives, I won't be the one to help you put a dagger in the Empress' back._  Cassandra dragged Evelyn away to the bathroom and who knows what became of the spymaster and the witch.

Her body hurts. Her hand throbs. Her arm and leg and shoulder burn. She hurries through the crowd and spots the others in their groups. They take her in, no doubt noticing the change of clothing. Josephine stands with Otranto and Yvette, her back to Evelyn. Even from behind she seems anxious. Evelyn is overcome with the urge to touch a hand to her rigid back, feel the shape of it against the palm of her hand.

It was difficult being in the enclosed space with her. She can't allow herself to get distracted with possibilities that won't come to pass. She is the Inquisitor. Josephine is the ambassador. There's an assassination to (potentially) stop. She reminds herself of this, takes a breath and goes to them. Otranto turns with his bright, easygoing smile. Yvette studies her intensely. Josephine turns last, eyes flitting over her. Searching for injury. Searching for something that cracks the façade.

"Inquisitor," Otranto nods his head. "What an honor to have you visit us on such an exciting evening for the Inquisition."

"The honor is all mine," Evelyn tries to sound gracious but only sounds wheezy and as if she's in a hurry. "I was hoping I might steal Lady Montilyet." Yvette looks to Josephine, Otranto, Evelyn and back to Josephine. "There's a matter of Inquisition business," she shifts her weight, feels a flush of pained heat wash over her face before she pales. She smiles tightly.

"Again?" He asks before turning to Josephine. "It seems your skill is appreciated after all."

"Has that been in question?" Evelyn asks. She looks to the two of them and notices how he wraps an arm around her waist. "I hope this isn't an inopportune time."

"Not at all," Josephine quickly says. She steps free of Otranto's grasp, leaving him with his fingers half curled around a waist that's no longer there. He lowers his hand to his side. "Lord Otranto understands my duty and loyalty are first and foremost to the Inquisition. Permission is not required, Inquisitor. I come willingly."

She tells herself not to make anything of the words. "Oh. Right you are, Ambassador. With your leave," she nods at Otranto whose smile has faltered. They walk a few steps and Evelyn forces herself to keep her gaze ahead. "I'm sorry if that was uncomfortable. I think your Lord Otranto has the wrong idea."

"I do not believe he does. But that is neither here nor there. Where shall we—" she stops shortly, reaching a hand up and clasping it behind Evelyn's neck.

"What are you—?"

"You've blood on your neck. You've blood in your hair." The panic in her voice is undeniable.

"I thought I got it all. Cullen said I was in fair shape."

"Cullen…! Have you seen how he shaves himself? If you had not been so stubborn, I would have assured that it was."

"Let's continue walking with your hand at the back of my neck. That's not conspicuous at all."

Josephine pulls her to the balcony, plucking a flower vase from a nearby table and taking it with her. The balcony is secluded but Josephine draws the doors closed behind them. She tugs the ribbon from her hair and wraps it around the handles of the door. "There. Now they'll only think that we're engaged in an indecent relationship and nothing more."

"Nothing more, hm?" she smiles wryly, surprised at how much she misses her.

"Such affairs are perfectly normal in Orlais. More importantly they'll not think I'm wiping blood from you. That's a start."

"Right."

Josephine comes near, setting aside the flowers from the vase and dipping her hands in the water. She brings her wet fingers Evelyn's neck, smoothing along her neck, tilting her head until the blood is presumably gone. Josephine takes hold of her shoulder and turns her. There's cold water at the back of her neck, a slight tugging along her hair. Evelyn tries not to think of the night when she returned from Adamant. The time spent in the bath tub, how Josephine's fingers threaded through her hair. The words she said. "If you were not so fair all this blood would not be evident."

She can't help being pale. "I imagine not getting stabbed would help more than the sunlight." Josephine makes no remark, continuing to dab along her hair. Evelyn looks to the stars. "Was it difficult to distract the necessary parties from my absence?"

"Not terribly. I simply engaged them in their favorite topic: namely themselves, and pressed when they were flirting with modesty."

"Are you sure it wasn't you they were flirting with?" There's a beat of silence. "We should talk about Briala and Celene while we can. How do we use the locket?"

"Despite the subterfuge, the Empress will know we've been snooping in her things the moment we present the locket. It won't matter then because we'll have the bargaining power. She would be foolish to try to make a move against us knowing that we could humiliate her in front of the Court."

"All right. So we try to get an audience with her—"

"Not so fast. I would suggest we show this to Ambassador Briala as well. We might as well kill—metaphorically speaking – two birds with one stone. If we show Briala that we have evidence of her involvement with the Empress, around the time the Empress was burning down elven alienages to dispel rumors of her involvement with Briala—she would lose the support of the elves."

"I met an elven woman willing to attest to that but I suppose there's no harm in making sure Briala is informed." Before she gets any ideas to disrupt the Inquisition. "But I don't see that she poses any threat. An elf could never have any real power in Orlais."

"Not under their own name, no, but she could rule behind the scenes under either Gaspard or Celene. It has been done that way for ages."

"Cassandra and Hawke were able to uncover one of Gaspard's men bound and naked to a bed post. Gaspard's planning a mutiny. Celene is aware. She got the guard to spill the plan in hopes for some time in the sheets with the Empress."

"How amateurish. It seems Celene is waiting for Gaspard to make his move. No doubt she has her guards on watch, ready to oust him the moment he aims to strike. Clever."

"So we've gathered evidence that just about everyone here is a bastard. That still doesn't solve the reason we came here. Someone aims to kill Celene and so far, we have no leads as to whom that is. We're wasting time. Are you done?" she turns before Josephine can answer. Shadows of the palace's attendees swim past the door. Evelyn stretches her hand out. "I'll take the locket. It's safer with me."

"And what do you imagine I'll do with it?"

Evelyn flounders. "It's a critical piece of evidence. If someone here finds out that  _you_  have it—"

"They won't. You are the one being closely watched. I am unsuspecting enough that I could sidle up to the appropriate parties and—"

"Menace them?"

"Persuade them—to see things from our point of view." Evelyn shakes her head. "You may not trust me, but please—trust that I can do  _this_. This is the only thing I know to do."

Not the only thing. She moves to the door. "Fine. Maker. I hope we don't regret this." She uses her left hand to unspool the ribbon from the door and extends it to Josephine, saddened that her hair is going to be bound again. She wore it loose when they were alone together. Josephine takes the ribbon tentatively and begins to tie up her hair. She keeps her eyes on Evelyn, who stares back helplessly. "I'll use this time to try to work out who's behind the assassination and the Venatori here."

"There are Venatori here?"

"Yes—"

"Will you—"

"Yes. I'll be fine." She has no choice but to be fine. It's exhausting waging war against her fears. She takes a step back.

Josephine reaches for her again and this time Evelyn allows the contact. Josephine's fingers are cool against her hot face. "You're too warm—"

And dizzy. Evelyn keeps that part to herself. "It's a warm night. That's all."

"Evelyn—"

"Ambassador. Please. We must focus. I can't do what I must if I'm thinking of you." Josephine nods tersely. Evelyn's breath rattles in her lungs. If she stays any longer she'll do something desperate. Say something desperate. "Good luck. Be safe."

She pulls the door open and enters, once again, into the den of lions.

* * *

The air is thick with heat and perfume as they exit into the grand ballroom. Evelyn keeps her hand behind her back. Josephine pretends it isn't caused by pain, that it is only a gesture to keep from reaching for her hand. Evelyn's cheeks are unusually rosy. Josephine considers a prayer to the Maker, to help her. She's never been particularly religious but given the times, given the Inquisitor's devotion and belief, perhaps it's best not to discount it entirely. In any case, she's desperate.

The crowds are dense and she keeps close to the Herald despite their parting words moments earlier. It isn't long before she sees Otranto, his face determined, if not agitated, heading in her direction. Or so she thinks. He shifts, moving towards the Inquisitor.  _It's nothing._  She should move on to Briala, to Celene. But she doesn't. She follows his movements. As she feared, he stops in front of the Inquisitor.

He smiles but it is forced. Evelyn says something, attempts to move past him but he steps in front of her. Josephine goes to them. Otranto turns his eyes to her but Evelyn keeps her gaze ahead. Her forehead glistens with sweat.

"Ah, and here is our dear Lady Montilyet," Otranto says. Yvette stands nearby looking sheepish. Josephine's stomach sinks. The little demon has said something. She doesn't know _what_  but whatever it is, isn't good. "So now I understand your fixation on the Inquisitor."

"I've tried to explain to Lord Otranto that he has the wrong idea," Evelyn looks past him to Yvette. "What I said was a jest. Nothing more." She looks to Josephine. "Tell him." Josephine tries to speak but her tongue is stubbornly still. "We went out to get fresh air and discuss this evening's negotiations."

"I don't believe you," he says.

She smiles, cutting and Josephine is worried about the words that will come out of her mouth. Evelyn shakes her head. "I have work to do, Lord Otranto. If you'll excuse me."

She walks past him. Josephine holds her breath, despite how her lungs burn. Otranto turns, following the Inquisitor with his eyes. "I challenge you, Lady Trevelyan." Evelyn stops, and turns, as do other nobles, to watch them. "I challenge you to a duel."

"What?" Josephine moves swiftly to him and takes his arm. "You do not know what you are saying. You have no right to do this," she hisses at him. He smiles at her. "You are causing a scene."

"We are in Orlais, my darling. Scenes are expected. And we are Antivan. You know quite well that I have yet to create a scene." He straightens, looking to Evelyn who is some steps away. "Well, Inquisitor. Do you accept my challenge?"

"I'm not sure what the purpose of your challenge is."

"Isn't it obvious? We are to battle for the affections of my betrothed." He looks at Josephine. His voice lowers. "I was there when you announced the news. I saw her face. As I have seen yours this evening when she is near. Will the Herald of Andraste fight for you? You deserve that at least, Josephine. Someone willing to fight."

There is too much fighting. The surrounding area has gone quiet, the guests at the Winter Palace watch them intently. Evelyn flexes her fingers experimentally behind her back. Josephine sees red bleeding through the red jacket she wears. Maker. "Ambassador Montilyet has already committed her services to the Inquisition. And her hand to you. If you knew her at all you'd know she finds the idea of 'dueling for affections' to be barbaric."

Otranto laughs. "Barbaric? We are Antivan! Passion is in our blood! Duels and sweeping romance! Do you know her better than her proper sister, Inquisitor? Lady Montilyet confided earlier that duels are romantic."

Josephine decides to disown Yvette, the blabbermouth. She's ready to argue the claim when Evelyn turns her attention to her. "Shall I duel for affections that aren't there, Ambassador?"

Josephine's throat tightens. Yes. Yes. That is what she wants more than anything. A way out of this. Potentially a quick and honorable way out of this. A way that will return them to one another. But that would risk the Inquisitor. Otranto is a talented duelist. Evelyn is injured and likely unaccustomed to battling a swordsman of such finesse. The attempt may very well kill her. Josephine blinks the heat from her eyes and smiles. "No. The Inquisitor and I have only ever been comrades of the Inquisition. Nothing more. This is a misunderstanding." She sounds even. She sounds heartless.

"I hope that's enough to put this matter to bed," Evelyn tells him. Her smile is unsteady and Josephine isn't sure from what specific pain. "Ambassador. I'll expect you'll handle that business we spoke of earlier. Lord Otranto— don't bother me with this again." She turns and goes, disappearing into the crowd.

The nobles mutter. Her refusal will be seen as a sign of weakness. The gossip of this will spread like wildfire before she reaches the other end of the room. Josephine shakes with anger. She could slap him. He does not know what he's cost them. She should throttle Yvette. He touches a hand to her shoulder and she nearly flings it back at him. "I am not your property," she hisses, "and if you ever dare again, to threaten the Inquisitor and besmirch her reputation with this—this… nonsense—"

"What about  _my_  reputation, Lady Montilyet, and that of my family? If the looks weren't enough, do you not think I've heard the gossip? I know about the two of you. You have put on a fine act pretending to like me. I was actually foolish enough to believe— Ah. It is what it is. If you like, we can treat this as what it is: a business arrangement. This is a matter of coin and I will not be cheated and I will  _not_  be embarrassed and I will not have word get back to Antiva that my future wife is screwing the Inquisitor. I gave you both a way out of it and you refused to take it. Do not think our marriage will be like those of the Orlesians. My wife is mine and mine alone. I will not share her with anyone." He takes two glasses of champagne from one of the waiters and extends one to her. "Champagne?"

She takes it and chokes it down. The bitterness makes her head hurt. "I must work," she tells him when the glass is finished. "I do not wish to see you for the rest of the evening." She rushes away from him. Yvette will have to be dealt with later. She is dizzy with anger. It is not a familiar feeling to her, hot and cold in one. She finds Briala first. Briala who looks at her as if she were nothing. She looks at her the way everyone she cares about has in these past weeks. The locket unspools from her fingers, catching like a hanged man when it stops. Briala stands at attention. Finally, someone worthy looks at her.

* * *

The Inquisition members are bundled together, seemingly relaxed. They sway in Evelyn's vision. She walks faster even if she can't actually feel more than a slight tingling numbness in her legs.

"What was that about?" Leliana asks, nodding over to Otranto who watches the group suspiciously.

"Nothing," Evelyn doesn't want to discuss it, think about it. She knows there has been a misstep but isn't sure if she's the cause, Josephine, or the whole lot of them. "He challenged me to a duel."

"What?" Cassandra turns her murderous gaze on him. "On what grounds?"

Leliana chuckles. "On what do you think?"

"It not important," Evelyn says, fighting the quake in her voice. "We still need answers. Cassandra's already reported what she and Hawke found. Dorian, Sera, have you anything?"

"Dead elves," Sera pops a grape in her mouth, her face scrunched up. Evelyn doesn't know whether it's the grapes or the news that are sour. "Lots. In the kitchen and quarters. Real bad like."

"The work of my Venatori countrymen," Dorian shakes his head. "We found one of Gaspard's blades on one of the malcontent's who met Sera's plaything."

Evelyn looks at Sera sharply. "What? You didn't say no to killing Venatori. Should I have let him kill me? Thought you hated the robes."

"A blade is too obvious," Leliana says. "Too clumsy. Likely a plant."

"Probably," Evelyn agrees.

"What we should focus on—"Dorian looks her over, his voice perking. "You've changed." He grimaces. "And you're wearing the same thing as Cassandra. How embarrassing!"

"Neither has ever been particularly fashionable," Leliana comments absently. "Still, it's a good thing our dear Josie prepares for every possible social faux pas."

"Only in Orlais – and I suppose Tevinter – is having the blood of a murdered one considered a faux pas. But how will she remedy this one?" Dorian asks.

"It doesn't matter." Evelyn looks back to the crowd but doesn't see the ambassador. "She'll be taking the locket we found to Briala and the Empress. Leliana, have our people keep their eyes on her." The spymaster nods.

"Does that mean you've settled on Gaspard leading Orlais?" Cullen asks hopefully. "You did say the blade is likely a plant."

"But maybe that's what he want us to think. Our work isn't done. For all we know he's the one after the Empress."

"Outside of his coup, you mean?" Cassandra asks. "Ugh. I need a diagram to keep track of all the backstabbing underway this evening."

"Don't forget the front stabbing, too," Hawke says with a wink and a nod to Evelyn.

Evelyn imagines a blissful moment where she punches her, fingers slamming into her nose, a fountain of red erupting from the apostate's face. She allows a moment to let it pass. "If he's leading the Venatori we need to find out."

"Why would he do that?" Cullen asks.

"Why does any horrible thing happen in Thedas?" Evelyn crosses her arms and unfolds them just as quickly, her shoulder and arms throbbing in pain. "To take power. There's nothing a person won't do to take what they feel is rightly theirs."

"We've got the word of one man tied to a bed," he complains, "but no evidence. Gaspard's men have been in the ballroom drinking and celebrating all night."

"Then we're back at square one." Evelyn looks at Leliana. "Where's the witch?"

"Allegedly running to Celene's side to keep her safe," she scoffs.

"You don't believe her? Could she be behind this?"

"Morrigan? No. She works alone. She serves no one. As for what happened earlier, don't take it personally. Don't be fooled by her pretty appearance this evening. She's always been a selfish bitch." A silence falls over the group. "Too much?" A sigh. "If you knew her, you'd agree." Her eyes focus sharply behind them. "Don't turn," Leliana instructs Evelyn. "It's Grand Duchess Florianne." Evelyn has trouble recalling the name. Josephine bored her with noble home after noble home prior to arriving at Halamshiral and after a while, Evelyn's mind began to wander. "Gaspard's sister," she says quietly. "Watch out for her, Inquisitor. She is skilled in the Game and you are—"

"Just… so awkward," Hawke chimes in.

Evelyn scowls and feels a tap on her shoulder. She bites her tongue and stifles the cry of pain. She turns. Another woman in a mask. Grand. She sees the smallest of nods from Leliana. So. This is she. "Grand Duchess Florianne," she bows. "How lovely to meet you."

"The honor is all mine, Inquisitor." She nods to the group. "Halamshiral is honored to have the Inquisition in its halls on this momentous occasion. How about a dance?" Evelyn stares at her. She can scarcely walk without limping. She doesn't have a dance in her. "Do not tell me your dance card is already full?"

Hawke coughs. Evelyn blinks and shakes her head. "I would be lucky to have your grace on my arm. Even if it's only for one dance." Florianne smiles and Evelyn tries to see through to her eyes but the mask prohibits her. She sees only pale light in the darkness.

They move to the dance floor. Evelyn doesn't dare to look back though she can feel her party's eyes searing into her. Florianne hooks her arm through hers and they take the steps down, Evelyn counting every breath, every step, trying to keep pace with herself. The nobles are watching. They stand, face one another, bowing again, their eyes on one another. She searches her mind for what she knows about this woman. Little. Josephine mostly told her of Gaspard.

They rise. Evelyn folds her left hand behind her back and realizes too late that it was a mistake. The dance commences, Florianne clasping her hand over Evelyn's right. Color floods Evelyn's vision and she hopes the gloves she wears are thick enough that she won't seep blood through them. "You're so flushed, Inquisitor."

"The company of a lovely woman has always brought a little color to my cheeks." The usual drivel that spills out of her mouth at these blasted parties. It worked often enough. They abandoned their husbands and lovers to have their way with her, to be had by her. It was different because they promised her nothing, gave her nothing but glimpses of time.

"Then I am certain it is our women, and not myself who have you so flushed."

She's not entirely wrong. "Orlais certainly has its share of beauty and intrigue. There is no one who can't help even a little curiosity." Why has this woman approached her now? Those who know her might not think she's much of anything but she's seen how others respond to her. They find her intimidating. Perhaps offputting. But this woman has come to her and asked for a dance.

"But are any as curious as you, Inquisitor?" They bow again and Evelyn's leg throbs. It feels wet. She swallows thickly but smiles at Florianne. "I know that you have spent a good portion of this evening exploring."

"Then it would seem you're more curious than I." Shit. "I never expected to gain the attention of the Grand Duchess."

"What modesty, Lady Trevelyan," she pulls close to her. "Your name might have been nothing before. But since that hole has torn through the sky, your name is on everyone's lips in Orlais. Some are quite fascinated by you."

"Typically the ones looking to put a knife through my heart."

Florianne smiles and turns to face her. Evelyn brings a hand to the small of her waist, uncertain of whether to focus her attention on the steps or the words. Everyone in Halamshiral watches now. Evelyn reverts her attention to Florianne. "How distrustful you are. Surely the pillar of the Chantry, the Herald of Andraste must have someone to confide in?"

"Must I?"

"Your position makes you clever—but lonely. No different from being a participant in the Game." Which they are playing right now. Evelyn has no sense of how she's doing. Maker, can't a conversation just be a conversation? She's not asking for blood to be changed to wine. "We are all alone here. Wouldn't you agree?" Evelyn says nothing. "I know that darkness dwells in these walls. Orlais and these games will not allow us to have peace. Peace would bore the people of Orlais."

"Peace bores everyone."

"You must not allow the parties behind these machinations to assassinate the Empress succeed." Evelyn arches an eyebrow. "There is no time for playing coy. It shames me to admit that it is my own brother behind this. It hurts me to say it. This is not the man who helped raise me. He has changed. When Celene stole the throne from him he was overcome by bitterness."

"I wasn't expecting to win your confidence, Your grace."

"There is right and there is wrong. Gaspard is everything to me. But we cannot risk Orlais falling to chaos. The leader of Gaspard's mercenaries waits to strike in the Royal Wing gardens. Speak to him and he will confirm that I steer you true." The music spikes to a crescendo and Evelyn gives Florianne one last turn before dipping her. Old, stupid habit. The grand hall erupts into applause. Her hand is bleeding. Shit, her hand is bleeding everywhere. Her leg is bleeding. Her shoulder is bleeding. She tries to steady her breath. Florianne feels as heavy as a bloody giant troll. The grand duchess brings her fingers to Evelyn's mouth, trailing them over the scar. Evelyn goes still. "What lovely lips you have, Inquisitor. I shall miss them when we part." Evelyn lifts her and they stand, pressed together, Evelyn's reflection distorted in Florianne's mask. "Good luck. You must go before it is too late."

Evelyn takes Florianne's hand in hers, trying to get the blood from it. She releases her only when she thinks she's succeeded. "Your Grace," she kisses her hand and moves away from the dance floor. It's a miracle she doesn't hobble up the stairs to her companions. "We need to get to the Royal Wing."

"What?" Cassandra asks. "Why?"

"You look awful," Hawke tells her. For once there's no scorn in her voice, only genuine concern.

Evelyn ignores her and relays her conversation with Florianne. Leliana shakes her head. "Well. How giving of her. I don't trust this, Inquisitor."

"Neither do I." Not fully, anyway. "But it's a lead. I'll go investigate."

"Not without us, you won't." Dorian says. He steps close to her. "You look pale, even for you, cousin. If the Grand Duchess is in fact working with her brother and this is some trap… Well. I'd hate for you to die in that uniform."

"What are you suggesting? That I not go?"

He places his hands at his waist, shaking his head at the floor for a moment. "Hawke told me what happened earlier," he says quietly.

"What a chatty little bitch she is."

"So how about you let me give it a shot? Or has that whole Venatori presence thing reminded you that we Tevinters are the scourge of Thedas? I helped you in Crestwood. You can trust me."

"I can't trust  _anyone_." She implied as much to Florianne but hadn't known it was true until this moment. When did that happen? It was a mistake to vocalize it. It can be exploited now that she's vocalized it. She's tired. She's bleeding. She's not thinking straight.

She hates how hurt he looks. He resents her for it and she resents him for resenting her. She doesn't know how to admit that she isn't sure if he'd be able to heal her. She hates Hawke but she wasn't (terribly) opposed to her aid. This night is important and she needs every advantage. It would be reckless to turn her away. And yet, something in her froze or shut down, shut Hawke down. The witch was able to overcome it, somehow. But what if Dorian can't push through it? They'd blame her. They'd say she wasn't in control. They'd blame the lyrium. They'd try to take it from her. It would be humiliating. Insulting. "Look, I'm—"

"Fine. Don't trust me. But if something  _happens_ , let  _us_  do the heavy lifting. You're no good to us dead, Inquisitor."

So it's Inquisitor now. Well. That's who she is. Why does she have to keep accepting it over and over again as if it were a revelation each time? She'd always wanted to be more and now she longs for the days when she was no one. Maybe she's a stupid person. Desperately hopeful despite her nihilism. "Let's go."

She's moving when Leliana takes her arm. "One more thing. I'm afraid the matter with Lord Otranto is already taking its toll. You were challenged and you walked away. He  _and_ the others of the court are calling you a coward. You lead the Inquisition. Refusing to engage a minor nobleman makes us appear weak."

"Lovely. How much damage has Lord Otranto cost us tonight?"

"Significant. What advances you'd made this evening have been lost." Evelyn clenches her jaw. "Your dance with the Grand Duchess won you some points but not enough. However we resolve matters this evening, we must do so with an iron fist. If you need my assistance, Inquisitor, you shall have it."

"Remedy this." Leliana nods. A vow made. "I'll count on you." It's not quite trust. It's work. Impersonal.

* * *

Florianne has led them into a trap. Evelyn listens while she prattles on about her cleverness and the work of her 'master' Corypheus. So she wants to deliver Southern Thedas in an effort to live for Corypheus' exalted age. It surprises Evelyn only because the woman had appeared unremarkable. In the end, she proved to be like any noble that has long been neglected and desperate for power. "You may have evaded him this long," Florianne says, "but I promised you to him tonight."

"Conspiring with Corypheus? Were you that desperate for attention?" Evelyn asks. Hawke chuckles. "You would kill your own family for this? Deliver Thedas to a power-hungry darkspawn aspiring to godhood? You're mad."

"Ah, what do the words of a soon to be dead Inquisitor matter? As for Gaspard and Celene. Pah. I never cared for either of them. They will be forgotten and I will have the world. A bargain, I would say. Both you and your Maker will be no more."

"You won't get away with this."

"You can try to stop me, Inquisitor, but I know of your delicate condition."

"Is she with child?" Hawke asks Florianne. She looks to Evelyn. "You've been holding out on me. But I do agree, moving on from the ambassador was the best course of action."

Florianne gives her a peculiar look. "You do not give me the due respect. Your companions may joke but you will not take my Venatori. I will let them handle you, while I take care of Celene."

Evelyn sneers. "I'd warn you that he'll kill you as soon as you've outlived your usefulness but I'm afraid he won't get the chance."

"We shall see, Inquisitor. Bring her marked hand," she tells her men. "We shall provide it to our master as proof." She leaps down from the platform with surprising agility, heading to the doors, to the grand ballroom, to Celene. Evelyn runs after her, plowing past two of the Venatori in the process but stopping as soon as Cassandra shouts her name.

A rift has opened. Sweat runs down Evelyn's face. Demons crawl out of the sky, snarling at them with bared, glistening teeth. Evelyn debates.

"If we don't close it now, they'll overrun the palace!" Dorian tells her. "We'll lose more than the Empress!"

Evelyn grits her teeth. An arrow plunges into her left shoulder. Archers. Bloody archers. She snaps the arrow head off and pulls it away. Her knees wobble. She fights it and fails, falling to her knees. "Give her cover!" Cassandra shouts.

Evelyn hacks for breath. This shouldn't be happening. Everything's spinning. Her heart is giving out. She can't stop this. But if she doesn't stop this, Thedas will crumble. She fights to pull air into her lungs. Shouting and clanging steel reverberate in her ears. Why is this happening again? Why now? "I can't—I can't—" She can't speak; she can only gasp. She can't get a hold of her senses to cripple the Venatori magic. Wasn't that the fucking point of the lyrium? This is a test. Is this a test? Is the Maker testing her? Her eyes water. How can she fight for Him when she can't get her legs to work?

Cassandra has gotten a hold of one of the mercenary's weapons. The Venatori start to go down. Dorian places a protective glyph. Other Venatori get that odd cast to them, their eyes gone soulless as they turn on one another. They fight until they explode, limbs, blood, intestines spraying everywhere. Evelyn thinks of the Ostwick Circle and the mages put to the blade, how she hated the templars and the Maker then, how she cried in her quarters that night the first time she saw it. And now… Her breath thins. The demons come. Hawke takes one of the Venatori's twisted staffs and sends them flying back several paces to be devoured and burned alive by the demons.

Hawke kneels beside her. "Whatever you or I believe, we were both put on our paths at the right time to do what only we can. It's hard and lonely and thankless but it must be done. You have to close that rift, Evelyn. We have to save the Empress." Evelyn shakes her head. She can't. She can't. "Yes, you can," Hawke says. How? She hurts. She wants to sleep. Where is the Maker? Where is He? "Let me help you."  _You can't help me._  Hawke murmurs, assurances or a spell, Evelyn doesn't know, and touches her face. Light seeps into her. Warmth. Courage from somewhere. Energy, seeming to overflow. Air slowly fills her lungs. Pieces of her begin to stitch together, hot and painful, pulsing before cooling.

She lifts on shaky knees and clutches her arm. Her hand crackles and burns, the Anchor setting her very nerves on fire but she isn't able to raise it to the rift. The words stick in her throat. She looks at Hawke, into that haunted and yet determined face. Her pride doesn't matter anymore. "I need help."

Hawke hears her, somehow, above the noise of the fray. She takes her hand and lifts it to the sky.

* * *

It has been several hours since the Grand Duchess' plot has been exposed and her blood ran down the steps of the Grand Ballroom. Without her mask, she looked old and pale. A hush fell over the ballroom and Evelyn loomed over her body, a specter. The Halamshiral guests watched the scene unfold, captivated, their teeth white with open, predatory smiles.

Josephine was surprised to be included with Evelyn, Cullen and Leliana in the final 'negotiations' with Briala, Celene and Gaspard. "You work for me now," Evelyn told them. Their protests had been brief and they soon agreed to the terms upon realizing the Inquisition had iron clad witnesses ready to oust their secrets to Thedas.

With the blackmail finalized, Evelyn left the group, giving no indication of what direction she'd be headed. Other Inquisition members have begun drinking and joining in the festivities. Evelyn is nowhere to be found.

Lord Otranto has been taken care of. His reputation tarnished in a matter of minutes thanks to her work and Leliana's. Josephine tells herself it was done for the Inquisition, not the Inquisitor. Deep down it's true, however romantic she might pretend the gesture is. She would never have taken such action for the Inquisitor alone. For their happiness. That wouldn't be right. But this… duty, ugly as it is—that she can do.

Otranto was ousted from the palace by Celene's guard, thrown past the palace's walls and immediately taken into custody by the Inquisition's soldiers. He will be detained until the Inquisitor decides what to do with him. In any case, the (false) shame, the grievous accusations against him—along with one Harlequin body repurposed for this occasion— are more than enough to end this engagement. She wants to see Evelyn but first she must see to him.

She walks out into the fresh night air. The night is a balm compared to the overbearing heat of the stifling dance hall. She moves past the gates and to the carriage where she knows he waits. A soldier opens the door for her and she steps inside. Otranto sits, his arms bound behind him, his mouth gagged. His blue eyes are furious. Two soldiers sit beside him. She sits opposite of him.

"What a difficult situation," she tells him. He narrows his eyes, struggles against his bindings, pulling against them until the soldiers yank him back again. "You behaved shamefully tonight, Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto. Challenging the Inquisitor to a duel on false premises and besmirching her reputation when she would not agree to your terms is a serious charge. Not that you had any chance in besting her, but  _had_  you, you would have risked Thedas itself for your own conceit and status. It is most disgraceful."

He struggles again. No doubt he is angry about the things said against him. The stories told were mostly inventions, but with enough truth, that it is impossible to discredit them. Leliana, had a file on Otranto. Nothing too out of the ordinary for any Antivan merchant family but enough information for Leliana to relay to her and Josephine to pick and choose what would break him most quickly, what would be impossible to swiftly disprove before he is forgotten and made irrelevant—the most heinous punishment in Orlais and Antiva.

His gag has gone wet with spit and he sweats. "Let him speak," she tells one of the guards.

"Don't step out of line," he warns Otranto and lowers the gag.

"You surprise me," Otranto says. "I spoke to your man—the Grey Warden. He spoke to me of your Enchanter Vivienne but it makes me think of you. The most poisonous snakes are often the most beautiful. You are a snake, Lady Montilyet. You may not get your hands dirty but you do not fool me. I question whether you are even Antivan. You have no passion. You are ice."

The guard punches him. Otranto squints, a welt forming at the corner of his eye. Josephine's throat dries. He was a fool to challenge the Inquisition. He was a fool to demand a duel. Because of his actions the Inquisitor had little choice but to kill Florianne. To show that she could do what 'must' be done. To show that she feared nothing. "Needless to say, this engagement is over. It would not do for the Montilyet name to be affiliated with yours. I will communicate the news to both our families. You will honor the business arrangement made before the news of your… unfortunate proclivities came to light."

"You have no authority to do that. Our engagement was arranged and with it came a contract. No matter your manipulations, you cannot get out of this so easily, 'Lady' Montilyet." The guard gags him again.

Josephine grits her teeth and smiles. "Enjoy your return trip to Skyhold alone. The Inquisitor will decide what to do with you there. This engagement will be ended one way or another."

She exits the carriage and takes a look at the night sky, pulling a deep, forceful breath into her lungs.

* * *

The Empress has given her a room for the night, as a welcomed guest of Halamshiral.

Evelyn's removed her dress jacket and set it aside. She runs the water, wiping the blood from her arms and face and neck. Hawke healed her of her most grievous injuries. Maybe she was too broken to cancel out her magic. She remains bruised but won't bleed out any time soon. Leliana observes her from the doorway of the bathroom. She and Josephine handled the Otranto situation. Florianne is dead. Another political figure murdered for the right reasons before a crowd who bristled with excited energy.

"I stayed in this very room long ago when I worked for Divine Justinia."

"And whom did you have to kill to get the accommodations?"

Leliana laughs softly. "No one you know. The night ended well, Inquisitor. Your actions with Florianne and the Empress earned you and the Inquisition respect." Respect earned through death and blackmail. Is that sort of respect worth having? She realizes she's being naïve. She's grateful for Leliana, who pressed the dagger to her hand as she brushed past to get to the Grand Duchess. "We resolved matters with Lord Otranto. He's currently being held by our men. What do you suggest we do with him?"

"He's the ambassador's betrothed. Let her decide." It's pointless to loathe him. Politically he cost them much. He forced their hand but she can't hold on to her hatred. She hated Otranto because Josephine allowed him to come between them. Because she was ousted by a stranger. Because she kept him a secret as she had been kept but when exposed wore him proudly, like a jeweled brooch. Josephine accepted the engagement and will not break it. It was easier to hate him than hate her, than think herself unworthy. Now with the evening finished, the matter seems small and petty. It nearly cost them a significant victory in the end. "I don't care what happens to him."

"That… surprises me. By the way, the Empress has given us her Court Enchanter. Her way of expressing gratitude—or punishing us for the events of this evening. As if anyone wants her."

"I'll expect you to keep an eye on her."

"She may not engender trust but she's smart and she's powerful. I suspect she knows more than she lets on. I prefer to keep her close than leave her to her own machinations." Evelyn nods tiredly. "You've had a long evening."

Evelyn runs her fingers over the curves of the sink, wiping the red away before beginning again. "I thought I would die tonight." Leliana says nothing. The water is icy but Evelyn continues. "I can't make sense of all the thoughts in my head. The Chantry condemns mages. I always thought the Chantry was ignorant and close minded in that regard but now mages terrify me. But if not for Hawke and Dorian I'd be dead. Cassandra would be dead. Crestwood was long ago. I should be better. Stronger. Nobody says it but I know they're thinking it."

"You're strong, Inquisitor. The Warden, Hawke, even Cassandra had help. The history books won't always tell it that way, but it's true. I know it. I've lived it. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"That's not true." She smiles mirthlessly. "You know everything about me. You know that more than anyone." Leliana watches her. "Any time I think I've made the right decision, I find out I've done it wrong again. I thought not dueling Otranto would show strength but it made me appear weak." Evelyn stares into the mirror and touches her shoulder gingerly. A dull throb remains where the arrow pierced her but she feels it as brightly as if it still lanced her. "I said I'd help restore your faith and now I find myself struggling. I was never devout. I resented my family for devoting themselves to a figure that would allow my mother to die. When all of this started—I hated it. I thought it could be a game. Even then, with the world falling apart I didn't want the responsibility. I thought I could use it. Some line to get women into bed." Leliana smiles at that. "I was so stupid. Things seem to get worse at every turn. I've felt alone and abandoned when I have a family and an army. That's selfish. It made me feel awful and so I turned to the Maker in desperation. Who else would love me? Accept me? But that's selfish, too. I'm a noble. I've escaped my past crimes because of connections and coin. I'm no alienage elf. No wiper. I'm fortunate but I'm unhappy. How can I be the Herald of Andraste and have these thoughts?"

"It's common to struggle with your faith."

"What if He didn't help me tonight? What if He's never helped me and I'm only looking for something to make sense of all of this? What if I just want to feel like I'm special?"

"But you believe in Him. You worry about your devotion." Leliana considers. "Whether you want to be or not, you are special."

"No one turns to Him when they're happy. I didn't. Solas said I was using religion to manipulate the people and I hit him for it. Why turn to Him only in our darkest hour?" Is that how it should be?

"Perhaps because we know that He's the only one who can help us. The Maker knows we're selfish. He loves us regardless." She gives her a small vial. A potion. Her temple bleeds and Leliana steps forward to dab a cloth to it. She bows her chin and produces a small vial, seemingly out of thin air. "Drink this. It'll help." Evelyn uncorks the vial and downs the contents, sweet and bitter, in one quick shot. It burns a path down her throat and into her stomach, pooling there. "So, you do trust me. It could have been poison."

"If you could take my hand safely, I don't doubt it would be."

Leliana smiles. "You should change and join in the festivities. Halamshiral needs to see that you can drink and dance with the best of them."

"I've already beaten them. I have no need to join them."

"But a night of dancing. Ah, everyone looks so lovely." She comes closer to gaze at her reflection in the mirror. Evelyn glances at her, the slope of her neck, the cut of her shoulder bones, the shine of her lips.

"Not 'everyone'." Evelyn frowns at her reflection. "I look a fright."

"I've never been afraid of a little blood and dirt. It's nothing a bath won't fix." She touches her eyebrow, fingers absently combing through her hair. Evelyn watches her. "It's a shame to waste these hours. Who knows when we'll next have them? A night in Halamshiral can be a clean diversion." She turns away from her reflection to look at her. "We must take our pleasures where we can."

* * *

With the peace talks resolved the celebration is underway. The crowds are the most raucous they've been all evening. Fortunes and reputations will be made and lost. Josephine doubts that Florianne will be the only noble to lose her life. She moves through the nobles, drunker on the display of Florianne's execution than any wine or champagne. Golden masks glisten, sending light through the ballroom like sparks. It's too bright here. She prefers flickering candlelight.

Yvette stands with a small crowd of elven servants, laughing loudly, tapping a man's arm, trying to get his attention and nearly dropping her flute of champagne in the process. Josephine goes to her. Instead of the shame or contrition she expects, Yvette looks at her defiantly. "And here is my older sister. You're angry because I said something that was true. Don't you think that odd?"

"Yvette, come away with me so we may speak."

"I have no wish to come away with you. What happened to Lord Otranto? Do you care?"

"I am not sure why you are saying these things." The group who was focused on them turns away when Josephine fixes them with a withering stare. "I was not the one to cause a scandal tonight." Well… Perhaps that is only partly true.

"You are the one who creates a scandal whenever it suits your whims! And even when it does not." She sighs, exasperated. "Why could you simply not have told him that you were involved from the beginning? And why not share such news with your family? Everything is status to you. You should know you will never fully please mother and father. You could stand to be less snobbish. I was trying to help you."

"How did you help me?" And now she grabs her arm and pulls her some distance. "By airing my dirty laundry? By jeopardizing the Inquisition?"

"Only you would consider a relationship dirty laundry."

"You had no right to do that. You had no right to tell him what I told you in confidence. Did you think I wanted to see them come to blows?"

"Yes, I do. I think some part of you would have loved it if they'd crossed swords on the spot for your affections. How romantic! Well. I'll tell you something. I do not think one should have to duel for love. Not to settle bets. Not when words will do. That is your talent, isn't it? There is enough fighting in the world, enough war and death. I would rather die than keep myself in chains like you do. You think it's important and you resent me for leading my life and having fun. When you are old, Josephine, none of this that you cling to will matter. And no one will remember you as anything other than some dull ambassador. You should enjoy your life for yourself."

"I have had enough of this conversation," she bristles. "I will not allow a child who has never had an ounce of responsibility tell me how to lead my life."

"Allow me? You don't allow anyone. You would hate for anyone to have it!"

"Stop. Shouting."

Yvette's lips thin, eyes narrowing before she moves away from her. Josephine calls her name but Yvette doesn't return or acknowledge her. She's still a brat. But Josephine is uncomfortable, her head flushed. It's possible she drank too much champagne tonight. She hasn't begun to consider everything that's happened. She stated her intention to end the engagement and Otranto did not back down. If she does not have the backing of the Inquisitor, this could cause a small war. Her stomach sinks. She'll have to convince her. Surely she can do that.

She searches the ballroom for the other members of the Inquisition. Cullen is surrounded by a gaggle of women and a handful of men. Dorian and Sera are scouting the room, pointing and leaning into each other before laughing. Cassandra and Hawke languish against one of the railings, smiling. Hawke's fingers graze along Cassandra's wrist. Cassandra allows the contact until she notices Josephine and pulls her hand away, frowning.

Where are Leliana and Evelyn? The two have been inseparable lately. Josephine's stomach knots and then again when she finds them on the balcony, heads bowed toward each other, speaking in low voices. Leliana laughs softly, as if at some shared secret. "Somehow I knew you would say that," she murmurs. Evelyn bows her head, smiling as she hasn't in weeks.

Josephine feels herself grow cold. She stands at the doorway, unnoticed, before finally clearing her throat to announce herself. They turn in unison. Leliana looks at her as if she were some old, anticipated trick. Evelyn looks at her as if she were a thief, hoping to steal her valuable time. She's no longer bloody, her face only adorned in small bruises. She wears her formal Inquisition robes and Josephine remembers she bought a chest of clothing for the return trip back to Skyhold, worthy of meeting dignitaries on the road. Someone must have fetched them for her.

"Ambassador. Has something happened?" Evelyn asks.

Leliana shakes her head. "We would have heard." A beat. "I didn't see you earlier. I thought perhaps you'd retired for the evening."

"And miss all of this? I wouldn't dream of it. I've missed civilization." She looks at Evelyn who watches her guardedly. "Wouldn't you agree, Inquisitor?" The title is too heavy on her tongue.

"I wouldn't say there's anything civilized about this place."

Oh.

"You're right," Leliana agrees, "but that's what makes it fun. We can all stand to be uncivilized every now and then." She glances at Josephine. "Well. Maybe not all of us."

Heat flushes her face. Why is a compliment flung at her as if it were an insult? It was enough to hear it from Yvette and now Leliana must join in. She is tired of both of them and wishes Leliana would leave, surprised at the irritation her mere presence provokes. She forces herself to laugh. "Are you accusing me of being dull, Leliana?"

"I don't think anyone could accuse you of that," she looks between them. "Well then, Evelyn. I think it's time for a refreshment. Shall I bring you anything?"

"You're trying to get out of your promised dance."

Another lance of ice plunges into Josephine but she keeps her smile. "I never promised," Leliana tells her before her eyes shift to Josephine. "I assume you have no need of me?"

"None at all. For the moment," she quickly adds.

An unreadable smile and then she's gone. Evelyn sighs, as if she were suddenly tired and shifts back around, turning her attention to the gardens below. Josephine moves beside her, resting her arms carefully on the railing. Evelyn fixates on her hands, flexing the one that was speared before, absently touching the patch of raw skin at the center of her palm. Josephine bites the inside of her lip, unsure of how to proceed. "You look better." When Evelyn says nothing, she continues despite her queasiness. "What an evening! And strangely, not too out of the ordinary for Orlais."

"I don't know how they bear it."

"It's thrilling to them, the games and revelations that unfold over an evening."

"It bores me. As they must be bored to invent their scandals and not just get on with things."

"But you played the Game tonight, did you not? With the Empress and her family. Briala." Why blackmail them all, if not for games? Why not appoint a successor and allow the assassination to stand?

"That was Inquisition business. Not a personal hobby."

"The Game is so much more than a hobby."

"To you, perhaps."

Josephine narrows her eyes, her fingers curling on the railing. "I think you are being a tad closeminded."

"I don't care what you think."

They look at one another then, Josephine wondering whether her face looks as surprised as Evelyn's. It shifts then, the purity of the emotion buried by what Josephine can only hope is a mask: indifference. What changed? She was warmer earlier in the evening. Josephine could have sworn some part of her still wanted to have her near. Was it her words to Otranto in the crowded ballroom that changed things? Or was she simply misreading the situation and clinging to false hope? Josephine waits for an apology but the seconds trickle by and it becomes apparent she isn't going to get one. "I see," she finally says. She should leave but can't.

Evelyn stands tall. "Our business at Halamshiral has concluded. As such, I've instructed our men to release Lord Otranto to the designated quarters at a nearby inn. He'll be guarded but you're welcome to join him. I'll have our people prepare a carriage."

"I have no wish to return to him." How can she think she does? Does it not bother her to send her into the arms of Otranto? She tries to gather her thoughts. "Why would you release him?"

"He's no longer a threat. Isn't that the 'civilized' thing to do?" She faces her. "What would you recommend we do with Lord Otranto?" Josephine frowns. Evelyn comes closer, a fist balled. Does she wish to strike her or is she testing the dexterity of her fingers? She uncurls her hand. "Shall I duel him for you?"

"You are mocking me, Lady Trevelyan." Her voice shakes and she isn't sure if it's with anger or hurt, or the way Evelyn smiles as if what has consumed her life for the past weeks were only a joke.

"I asked you a question, 'comrade' and you've deflected."

Josephine glowers. "You are under the false delusion that this engagement pleases me. He knows about us. Don't you understand? He is the wronged party. Have you any idea what this could do to his reputation? People have been assassinated for less."

"We did more than enough damage to his reputation tonight and it had nothing to do with our past bedroom activities. I'm not worried about Lord Otranto. The Inquisition has the House of Repose and the Antivan Crows at its disposal. Let him try to have me assassinated. You should know he's only trying to impress you. Everyone can laugh at my backwater noble roots all they want, but who in all of Thedas can compare to the Inquisitor?" Josephine has no answer. "I assume we're finished here?" She turns to leave without waiting for a response.

"I ended the engagement." The words are said with unexpected desperation. Evelyn stops. And it is only then that Josephine realizes the words are not quite true, that she has only expressed her intention to end it, had levied the Inquisitor's authority and power to attempt to cow him into accepting the severing of their engagement and he was unmoved. It is not yet done. She remains engaged. She should say so. She should clarify that point. Yet she is fearful of this night. Something has shifted in the Inquisitor. She has a calm and bearing that she has not previously possessed. She has the ear and respect of Leliana. If she lets her walk away from her now she will lose her. She will find someone honest and unafraid. Someone better. The engagement will be ended. It is not a lie. It will not be a lie.

Evelyn looks at her, eyes searching for deception, for some sign that will reveal her words for what they are. Josephine prays she doesn't find it. "You have? When?"

"Earlier."

"Why now?"

"You know why. I never wanted any part of it. I never wanted any part of him." The financial component was important but it will be resolved so that her family will benefit. When she does resolve the entire matter. "All I needed was time." It is all she still needs. Words buy it.

Evelyn is dazed. "I don't know what to say."

"Say that you are happy." But it isn't happiness on her face. It's conflict. Confusion. "He is unhappy. And unwilling to accept it," she says. The words are true. "I appreciate your attempt at diplomacy, Inquisitor. But I would caution against releasing him to his own devices. We should stay with the initial plan of returning him to Skyhold under armed guard." The longer he is kept bound, the angrier he will become, the more irrational he will appear. It will work to her benefit. It will work to her and Evelyn's benefit. "Would you still arrange a carriage so that I may be taken to him?" Evelyn says nothing, her face a storm of thoughts. She doubts. She doubts rightfully. Josephine goes to her, takes her hands, fingers tracing along her palms, taking her face in her hands. The bruises make her want to weep. "I would much rather spend the night with you."

Evelyn lowers her hands. Her grip is remarkably strong. "If people see this they will know Otranto was on to something.  _We_  will look the liars. The reputation of the Inquisition will suffer."

"He is forgotten."

"I have not forgotten him." She releases her.

"Then take me somewhere private. Unless it is your preference to take me here." Evelyn looks at her as if trying to sort out the meaning of her words. Josephine pulls the ribbon from her hair again, spilling her hair loose and and tying the doors closed. Previously this evening she'd joked about a scandalous rendezvous and here she is trying to put it into place.

"Leliana's returning."

"Forget her. She'll understand." She goes to Evelyn but she's wary. She cups her face again. "I need you. I love you. Don't turn me away." She lifts slightly and presses her lips to Evelyn. She's unresponsive, her eyes coolly searching her. "Isn't this what you've wanted? For me to confess my feelings? To discard my chains? What else do you want from me?"

"I want to be able to go out into that ballroom with you on my arm. I want to not have to hide what we were as if it were a filthy secret. I want to not have to orchestrate our lives around the whims of some nothing Antivan lord. And I want to not be made to feel I should throw myself at your feet in gratitude the few times you think to acknowledge we ever existed."

"That is not what— You know why that's not possible. You said it yourself minutes ago. Perhaps back in Skyhold, but not here. Can we not enjoy ourselves for the night? Is the thought of touching me so repulsive?" Has she already set her sights on Leliana? Has she already found some noblewoman who will keep her company for the night?

Evelyn sinks her head. "You know I don't think that."

"Really? Certainly you make it a point to mock my 'talents' when you're angry."

"When I'm angry. When I'm hurt—I say things. Hurtful things. I don't mean them. It's no excuse and I apologize."

"Now, when I've pointed it out."

"Should I  _not_  have apologized?"

"I do not know what I was thinking." She goes to the door and yanks the ribbon away, quickly tying her hair back up. "I congratulate you, Inquisitor. You have quite the talent for making me feel unwanted."

"I have a talent for that? Were you not the one who never told her family, who never told her bloody fiance, who denied us to everyone tonight?"

"I did that for the Inquisition."

"You did it for yourself, to save face and your scrupulous reputation. And yes," she agrees bitterly, "for the Inquisition. But every other time? That was for you. Only for you." A beat. "We've talked this to death. I've grown sick of it, as no doubt you have. There's no sense in rehashing it again."

"Are you in such a hurry to return to Leliana?" Evelyn's eyes flash and Josephine wonders if she ever knew her at all. Is she offended at the notion or defensive? "Do not be fooled, Inquisitor. She may be beautiful, but you would only be a momentary diversion to her."

She goes to the door and opens it. "I appreciate that you broke your engagement, Lady Montilyet. It might have meant more had it been done  _prior_  to this evening. Prior to the risk of having his name sully yours. The only thing that changed tonight is his reputation. That  _is_  the reason you ended the engagement, isn't it? It wasn't for love. It wasn't for me. It wasn't for us." Josephine has no words. "I'll have Lord Otranto taken into custody until we return to Skyhold, if that will set your mind at ease."

Josephine says nothing.

"Don't you think I want to take you in my arms? I need time to think. I need time to relax. I need time to… process everything. Not just whatever is between us. But the ramifications of this night on the Inquisition and Thedas. You're not the only one who gets time. That's not fair."

Josephine says nothing.

She sighs, tired. "I hope you take this evening to enjoy all the civilized splendors of Halamshiral, Ambassador. Goodnight."

Josephine watches her walk away. Her lip twitches. Her vision momentarily blurry. She looks away from the lights of the Winter Palace and turns her sights to the night, feeling fire burn in her lungs, a hollow in her stomach.


	21. Intermission

The Inquisitor walks past them in a fog.

Hawke watches her go and looks towards the balcony. Josephine remains, leaning against the railing, shoulders pulled closely together. Trouble in paradise. No surprise there.

"Perhaps we should go after her," Cassandra says.

"I don't think we can help the Inquisitor with this." Hawke had nearly forgotten what the woman looked like beneath all the blood. At least they've all survived the evening. Things were a bit touch and go earlier. Is Trevelyan a terrible Inquisitor or are things more difficult this go-round?

Cassandra looks at her crossly, practically wringing her hands. "Josephine was very upset earlier in the evening. I've never seen her that way." Lucky, Hawke thinks. She doesn't care for the ambassador. Always snipping at her because she can't have a conversation with her girlfriend without first consulting an etiquette manual. "I did not think them so close. Why am I always the last to know these things?" she accuses.

"You're asking me? I've just joined this team of misfits."

"You have not  _just_  joined us. It feels as if you have been with us for quite some time."

"That's only because you've been obsessed with me for years." She smiles, watching the red crawl up Cassandra's cheeks. "Come on, let me pretend it's true?"

"No." A beat. "I have not been 'obsessed'."

"Maybe only obsessed with kissing me?"

"You are terrible." She crosses her arms. "Must you mock me?"

"Must you tease me?" she asks quietly. Another lovely flush. Hawke's heart skips a beat. Maker. She's bloody smitten. She isn't sure how it happened. She was making fun of her in Crestwood. She thought it would be fun to tease her, to test how uptight she actually was. Certainly she'd never kissed a woman, never thought she could feel anything romantic towards one. Maybe somewhere, Varric and the Maker are having a big laugh at all of this. Where's Anders, she wonders.

"You look so serious all of a sudden. What are you thinking about? Something dreadful?" Hawke doesn't answer. "I saw what you did for the Inquisitor this evening. You got through to her somehow. I know you've had your disagreements."

"With nearly killing one another, you mean?" Hawke looks at her, not sure what she's getting at. "It  _is_  my one task in this mighty Inquisition to keep an eye on her," she says, thinking of Josephine. Maker the woman is uptight. And always angry at  _her_. "Don't get me wrong. She's irritating and too serious for my tastes." She doesn't remember what she was getting at. "But I suppose she didn't have the ten years I did to get a hold of things."

Cassandra sighs. "It has been difficult for her." A moment. "For both of you."

"Right. Why did you get the perfect life? All those names and all those dragons. And those cheekbones. It's not fair at all." She grins when Cassandra scowls at her. "So, shall we clutch to this railing and a public venue all night or shall we go somewhere else?"

She narrows her eyes suspiciously on her. "What do you mean?"

"It means I'd like to kiss you again and something tells me you'd rather have that happen in private than in a ballroom full of prissy nobles."

"Who says I want it to happen again? Perhaps I only…" she considers.

"Felt sorry for me? Oh, that's all right. I'll take it." She inclines her head towards the double doors that lead to the grand foyer. "Come on. I promise, I'll behave myself." She walks and is pleased to find Cassandra catching up to meet her stride. They leave the palace walls and exit into the gardens. Nobles still litter the area, but they've gone droopy from drink and sit on stone benches, consoling one another on the egregious activity of the night. The cool night breeze rustles her hair and she lifts her fingers to it irritably. It's getting shaggy again. "Shall we share a carriage back to the inn?"

"I suppose." She mourns, unable, Hawke imagines, to come up with a good argument against it. They move towards one of the Inquisition carriages, Hawke providing instruction before opening the door for Cassandra, who regards her with some surprise before stepping inside. Hawke follows, sitting opposite of Cassandra and shutting the door firmly behind her. The carriage rattles to a start not long after, the horses plodding along and Hawke smiling as the carriage jostles them. "It is a lovely night," Cassandra volunteers with the cheer of a woman whose teeth are being pulled.

"Now that all the double crossing and murder is out of the way, I must agree."

"I am surprised you have chosen to sit there." Hawke stares at her. "I imagined… well. That you might be more aggressive."

"Did you? And pray tell, where did you imagine I would sit?"

"I do not know. Next to me, perhaps."

"Is this a trick? Will you hit me if I go over there?"

She grimaces. "No."

Hawke moves over, the carriage hitting a pothole just then, causing her to slam her head on the top of the carriage. She swears, sits beside her. "Well, something's making my head spin." They sit closely, their legs brushing. Halamshiral is alight in torches and color. They stare at one another apprehensively and Hawke realizes that she's nervous and doesn't quite know what she's doing. She slides closer, the leather of the seat creaking. She winces, her hand moving to the back of Cassandra's neck. Her skin is hot to the touch. Hawke dips her head and presses a kiss to where the curve of her jaw and neck meet. Cassandra lights a hand on Hawke's shoulder, their faces shifting to bring their lips together.

Breathless and nervous, they press closer.

* * *

 

It's late night or early morning by the time they arrive at the inn. They take the stairs up, minding the shadows and finding their way to one another again. "We will be seen," Cassandra complains, scandalized.

"Everyone's asleep. And if they aren't, let them see." Another languid kiss follows as Hawke presses her to a wall. Cassandra's lips have lost their initial stiffness, fingers tentatively weaving through her hair. Hawke feels drunk, despite only having one drink in the evening. Her head spins, her face is flushed, throat parched. Everything is warm and lovely, dreamlike. She wonders if it's the same for Cassandra.

They hear a sound and separate, only to discover it's the knocking of a branch against the window. "I thought it didn't matter to you who saw," Cassandra says.

"It doesn't. But how can I tease you if everyone knows you can't get enough of me?" That provokes a frown. Shouldn't she know by now that she's teasing? Hawke can't tell if she likes it or not. "Well then, which way is your room? I'll walk you to it."

Cassandra scoffs. "And I'll invite you in for a cup of tea?"

Hawke laughs. "I'll take wine if you've got it." They walk, Hawke assumes, in the direction of Cassandra's room. The Seeker stops anxiously at the door. Hawke waits. Cassandra waits. They look at anything but each other. "So…"

"What?"

"Oh. Erm." She ducks her chin. "I suppose I should bid you goodnight."

"You're not coming in?"

"Do you want me to?" She asks, surprised. Cassandra frowns a little but says nothing. "Why don't you visit me once we're back at Skyhold?" Cassandra looks puzzled. Hawke wonders if she's making a terrible decision. "It's just that… well… I rather like you. I don't want to have a night with you here only for you to pretend like it never happened once we're back there."

"Oh."

"But I really want to." She cups her face. "Whatever you decide, I'll remember this." Though the idea of Cassandra not pursuing matters makes her a bit queasy, a bit relieved. Is she only nervous? She's never been involved with a woman. Is she lonely? Yes, but there's more. It's more. Cassandra's more. Hawke kisses her again, relishing the warmth of her mouth. "Goodnight, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast."

"Hawke." Hawke turns. Cassandra leans against the wall and shakes her head. "Goodnight."

Hawke winks and reluctantly leaves her, returning to her room. She pulls off the Fereldan leathers and falls back on the bed, thinking of her. "Well, Varric," she says, hoping he's somewhere, listening, "I'm really in it now, aren't I?" How he'd ridicule her. Ridicule them. How she'd love it.

* * *

* * *

A/N: There was a long note here before. Regardless, this is where it was previously stated that the story was shifting gears.

 


	22. Crosses

The day is cold. Her fingers tremble. Evelyn looks at them. Her fingernails have gone purple. The sky is the color of ice. There's not a cloud in the sky but she can't track the sun anywhere.

She looks at the crosses. A small memorial was erected upon first arriving at Skyhold by the survivors of those that were lost. Now the crosses are jammed in there, uneven and resting against one another. The crosses of those recently lost are easy to identify: they stick out further. The ground is still hard from winter.

Evelyn wonders if she'll ever get used to Skyhold. It never seems to warm here. The castle walls always whistle, flames and fireplaces flickering. Is that why she feels the chill? She restarts her count of the crosses but loses track again. There's always one nestled here or there, two or three stacked together when she thinks there's only one. Some have cuts in them, indicating more than one death.

"Every time I visit there are more."

Evelyn looks at her. Leliana. Even with the frost of the grass she didn't hear her. This is how she's always known her, garbed in heavy robes, metal bracers and gloves. A warning that she isn't soft. Halamshiral seems long ago. The days have… filtered. The woman in the dress, with the smile. Evelyn wonders if she'll ever see her again. "I saw this when we first arrived. I didn't know it'd grown like this."

"There's a list if you want it. Of course, when entire families are lost we only have the numbers." There's a heavy silence. Leliana stoops, looks at the crosses, straightens them when she can, buries others deeper. Evelyn's throat is tight. She cursed the cold only moments ago. Now she wants it, needs it to steady and numb her. Leliana's gloved hand comes to the top of one crude cross, two thick sticks bundled together, tips sharp. "We should consider burning these."

"What? Why?"

"It is a testament of the Inquisition's failure." A beat. "My failure. If some visiting dignitary sees this, they might tell the rest of Thedas of the numbers we've lost. They might tell them we haven't kept our people safe."

Evelyn doesn't know what she ought to respond to first. Her head is muddled. "We can't get rid of it. Our people need to see it. We need to see it, too."

"We have a list. I will not forget what was lost."

"They need it. This is their memorial. We can't take it from them." Leliana rises. Evelyn hears no sigh, but sees her breath, unspooling white in the air. Their people aren't buried here. The ground was too hard. The bodies were burned, the spirits of the lost returned to the Maker. "We could throw flower seeds down. Maybe a garden can grow." She grimaces. "But is the ground ruined?"

"I have seen life bloom where there has only been death. That was long ago." Her mind tracks. "Maybe this will be the same."

"Chantry sisters could provide a weekly vigil."

"I'm not sure the survivors need a reminder of what they've lost. They should bear it and move on." Evelyn doesn't know whether she's right. Most of her losses have been professional. Not personal. It's hard to think about it. It's hard to think of a response. Her teeth chatter. She clenches her jaw, closes her fingers. Leliana looks at her. She speaks more quietly. "It is not so cold, Inquisitor." She knows. Of course she knows. Evelyn says nothing. "Of note—Lord Otranto seeks audience with you."

"Why?"

"He is under the belief that you hold him here captive," she chuckles, "despite the absence of an armed guard. He complains to our 'staff' that you hold him here against his will."

"He's free to leave when he chooses."

"I recommend you give him an audience. But I would advise you speak with our ambassador first." Evelyn's lips thin. "She tells the engagement to Lord Otranto is ended." Who does she tell that to, Evelyn wonders. Leliana waits. "That must be good news."

Evelyn has rarely spoken of her relationship with Josephine. She won't start now. There was that small chat with Varric. Then he died. She turns away from the crosses. "I'll come for that list of the lost later."

A nod. "You know where to find me."

* * *

They scored a sizable victory in Halamshiral but Josephine feels no triumph.

Lord Otranto has been trying to send out letters. Josephine has instructed all parties to bring these letters to her. She has gathered a collection. But she does not doubt that something will sneak through. Something will get back to her family, something will get back to his. Truthfully, she has dedicated more resources to this… management, than is appropriate. It would not be right to ask Leliana for help. It would not be right to ask the Inquisitor.

So she has tried to occupy herself with outlining the terms that Gaspard, Briala and Celene will comply with. The list was drafted after an unusually tense war room meeting upon arriving at Skyhold. Perhaps the tension was imagined but no one in attendance, not she, not the Inquisitor, not Leliana nor Cullen seemed at ease. So now, armed with the list, she must arrange the necessary language, finish that first—and then return to her contingency plans.

Evelyn has not visited her, has not acknowledged their last conversation in Halamshiral. Josephine burns with shame thinking of it. Has anyone so thoroughly rejected her? Humiliated her? How did Evelyn spend the rest of the evening? With some whore? With Leliana? The thought is maddening. And yet she is not out of this engagement. It will be extraordinarily difficult without the backing of the Inquisitor. If only she could press. But she fears she cannot and worries she has already pushed too much.

Maddening woman. Give me your body, it does not matter to us nobles. And the moment Josephine goes to her, ready to submit she roundly rejects her. Her fingers curl tightly around the quill. It snaps in half and she gasps. A feather has sheared into her. Josephine looks at her hand and eases it out. A bright bead of blood comes to the surface. She opens a desk drawer and finds a handkerchief, wiping it away.

The door to her office opens and Josephine remains seated as the Inquisitor strides into the room. She stands at a respectful distance from the desk. "Ambassador. Are you busy?"

"What a question." She gets to her feet. "I fear none of us have a moment of free time." Josephine looks at Evelyn. There's something different about her but she can't put her finger on it. "Of course, I will always make time for you." Evelyn licks her lips, pink tongue running over similarly pink lips. She seems distracted. Or is she only nervous? She has always lacked somewhat in social graces. "Was there anything in particular you wished to speak about?"

"Lord Otranto." Oh. Josephine tries not to allow her excitement to get her carried away. "Our agents tell me he's tried to send letters but those letters have been brought to you." Josephine stills. "Has he been giving you trouble? I'm not sure why he's still here."

"I believe he holds out hope that one of us will change our mind." It's difficult to swallow. She picks up her glass of water and has a drink, clears her throat. "That I will… rescind the ending of our engagement—or that you will submit to a duel."

"I won't duel him." She says so cleanly, without reservation. Josephine sits again. "I'll speak to him." She extends her hand. "May I see his letters?" Josephine shakes her head. "If you prefer, I'll deliver them to Leliana."

"No." She doesn't recognize the sharpness in her voice. Evelyn lowers her hand. "Forgive me. It is only that… they have been inconsequential. And I do not wish to trouble you further with this." Evelyn looks at her. Josephine forces her courage. "Have you given any more thought… to our last conversation? You said you needed time."

"I've given it thought." Her eyes flit around the room but Josephine doesn't know what she looks at. Her eyes settle again on her. "I need more time. I hope you understand." Josephine nods stiffly. "Well, then. I'll go speak to Otranto."

Josephine quickly rises to her feet. "I would caution you, Inquisitor—against his words. He is… not agreeable to my proposals. I am not certain of what charges he will try to lay against us." What truths he will try to tell. But his truth and her lies, they're the same: strategy.

"Whatever he tries, I won't be convinced of it." It is what Josephine had counted on and she breathes a little easier. Evelyn moves towards the door, stops and looks back at her. "How is that list of terms for the Orlesians coming along?"

Josephine swallows her disappointment. "I am nearly finished. I'll submit them to you for approval once they're done."

"That's good." She stalls at the door. "I'll look forward to that—Josephine." She leaves swiftly and Josephine feels a great weight lifting off her shoulders. She's called her by her given name. A small submission, a small step forward.

* * *

"Leliana." Cassandra bursts into the war room.

Leliana sets down the wax and flame, a life extended a few moments longer. Cassandra looks around the room surreptitiously and gently closes the door. Leliana smiles. "It's too late. You've already alerted all of Skyhold." Cassandra scowls and approaches the war table, hands on her hips glaring at everything. "You look upset. What's the matter? Did the guard captain lose her post after all?" Leliana knows that Cassandra stopped reading Swords and Shields when Varric died. It's only recently that she's picked it up again.

"She had better not," she says too vehemently. "Would it be inappropriate to ask the Maker to allow Varric to send us the rest of the story—in a dream, perhaps?"

"I'll say this—if anyone could talk the Maker into that, it'd be that dwarf." Leliana turns the letter in front of her. Curious how people die. Illness, hunger, war, letters—all equal opportunity murderers. "Will you tell me why you've come in here, ranting and raving?"

"That is not fair." She pouts.

Leliana waits. Cassandra puts her hands on her hips and paces, this way and then that. Oh, she'll be at this for a while. She picks up the flame and wax again and lets the red fall onto the letter, fat, thick drops. She picks up the stamp of the Nightingale and presses down. Another name down. Another name to be added to the list. A chip here, a chip there, chips on her soul, and soon cracks, then what? Dust? It doesn't matter. What must be done, must be done.

"How do you love a woman?" Cassandra asks abruptly.

Leliana sets the wax seal down. She'd be less surprised if Cassandra had leapt across the table and put a knife to her throat. "What? Why are you asking me?"

"Well. I know of your… past. And you're a bard. And mostly Orlesian."

"Oh, of course."

"This is difficult enough, Leliana."

"So you've come to me for a hands on demonstration? And it will be hands on," she giggles. "Well, come here and let's get started. I've been lonely for too long." Leliana watches the flush crawl up her face until Cassandra is nearly as scarlet as the wax seal. Another small laugh and Cassandra is barreling towards the door. Leliana catches up to her. "You won't be able to be with a woman if you can't handle a little teasing, Cassandra." Sometimes teasing is the best part.

"And who is to say I have any interest in being with a woman?" Leliana arches her eyebrow. "Maker preserve me." Leliana waves her away to one of the stuffed leather chairs in the room and takes her small kettle of tea, pouring Cassandra a cup and bringing it to her. Cassandra takes it. "I am… puzzled."

"Because you spent the entire night of the Winter Palace ball with Hawke, you mean?"

"How do you know that? Ugh, never mind. I've told you that I do not like your people following me. You do not need to be everywhere at once."

"That's my job."

"That's the Maker's job."

"He doesn't do a very good job of it, does he?" Cassandra holds the tea and looks at her with unrestrained surprise. There is nothing subtle about the woman. "Let's get on with it, shall we?" She reluctantly sets her work aside and goes to the end of the table, leaning against it. "So you didn't let Hawke take you to bed." A beat. "Or perhaps you let her do all the work?"

"What? What work?" Another splash of red on her cheeks. Leliana finds herself smiling again. How endearing. She can't remember the last time she held that sort of innocence, any kind of innocence. "This—situation is… annoying. Hawke is annoying." She gulps down the liquid, regrets it and paces again.

"Are her kisses as good as I remember?"

"What? You said you were never involved," she shouts. Noting the smile on Leliana's lips, her eyes darken. "You are not funny. You – you are awful." Her shoulders slump. "But her kisses are not. Leliana, what am I to do? I am not attracted to women."

"Hm. If I were you, I would ask a woman who is, how to love one." Another scowl and it makes Leliana smile brighter. She's half convinced Cassandra will throttle her. "Why does it matter?"

"What do you mean 'why does it matter?' That's how you are, Leliana. That's how you've always been. Always so liberal with… everything. With the Chantry's teachings and interpretations, with…"

"With what?" She waits. And she feels the mood dampen and wishes she hadn't asked. She knows with what.

"I am—old enough to know better," Cassandra presses on. "I might as well tell you, since you likely already know. I— considered… letting things… progress in Halamshiral."

"Sex?"

"Yes," she growls. "But—Hawke turned me down. She said she did not wish to have one night and worry I'd change my mind." Sometimes that's best. Clean that way. "I was grateful. And disappointed. I thought once I returned here… I'd have a better … foundation. But I'm still confused." Leliana waits. "And I don't know what to do. The Inquisitor came on to me, you know."

Oh? "Just now?"

"No! Ages ago. And I told her the same thing."

"Did you tell her with your lips like you did Hawke?"

"I am going to strangle you if you persist. You're as bad as she is."

"Does that mean you'll kiss me too?"

"Leliana!"

Leliana lifts her hands. "All right, I'll behave." And after Cassandra's scathing look, she'll have to. Ah, it can't be helped. She has so little opportunities for fun these days. She has fewer friends. Very few. She must guard them. Cassandra observes her. "I can't resolve your feelings, Cassandra. You'll have to sort that out for yourself."

"But that is not helpful," she protests. "I have no wish to lead her on. And I'm perplexed, her past lover was that Anders."

"And yours was 'that' Regalyan. What's your point?"

"What if we're just lonely? And upset about Varric?"

"Then I would advise you  _not_  to get involved. There has to be more than that. If that's the only reason, you'll be disappointed." Getting involved with anyone is a mistake. She bites that back, not wanting another lecture on love and kindness. She sighs. But what does she know? Tricks from her games years ago? She had one love, one true and pure love and she's dead now. Another one taken by the Maker. So much sacrificed in service to Him and He's always demanded more. The bastard.

* * *

Evelyn yawns, fatigued, and tries to rouse herself. Her head is throbbing and her hands feel like bricks of ice. She worries she'll never get warm again. She blows hot breath into her hands, rubbing them together, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. It's hard to see herself clearly. There are the heavy Inquisition robes, the crown that saved her life in Halamshiral.

She wraps the golden sash around her waist, gives herself another cursory look and exits her room. Lord Otranto is currently in his quarters, his dinner recently brought to him: roasted chicken, potatoes and wine. Two of his guards are posted at the door. Six of her guards are within shouting distance. "Good evening," she says to his men. "I trust you'll let me in."

They step aside and she wanders in. The door is shut behind her. Otranto lifts his head, dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin and rises. She keeps her arms folded behind her back to keep them from shaking. She waits for the anger and jealousy but finds only disappointment and sadness. At least it's done. "How's the dinner?" she asks.

"Do not condescend to me with your small talk," he snarls. "How long do you intend to keep me here?" She studies his face, the bruises only now beginning to heal. Evelyn waits. "Was it not enough to falsely besmirch my reputation? You have cost me much."

"You have not paid nearly enough for what you might have cost the Inquisition. Your  _life_  would not have been enough. So, Lord Otranto, I encourage you to  _sit_  and be grateful." Her words tremble and she feels unsteady. He glares and sits, picking up his fork and knife and for the moment, looking like a spoiled toddler. "I have reviewed your contributions to the Inquisition. We will return what you provided, which frankly, was meager. With your engagement to Lady Montilyet broken, I trust you'll have no reason to be here any longer and we can part ways."

He laughs dryly. "With our engagement broken? Is that what she told you?" He slams the sharp end of the knife onto the table and stands. "It appears that crown is not the only point on your head. Our engagement is  _not_  broken. It cannot be broken until  _I_  consent and until her family has fulfilled its obligation to me.  _I_  have not consented. Her family has _not_  fulfilled its obligation. She remains my betrothed, Inquisitor." The numbness returns in sweeping force. "That snake has sunk her fangs into us both."

"You will not speak of her that way," Evelyn menaces. "The only snake here is you. Hanging on to a woman who does not want you."

"Then we're the same," he says. Evelyn works to unclench her jaw, feels her fingers twitching behind her back. "Come. Let us end this charade. Let us duel. If you win, I shall allow you to determine the conditions of the financial arrangement between my family and that of the Montilyets. It is a generous offer considering everything she is trying to steal from me. She is not satisfied with merely taking my reputation."

"I won't duel you."

"No? You coward."

Evelyn stares at him. "What will it take to settle this?"

"For starters? You notify everyone in attendance at the Winter Palace ball that you spread deception. You give me double what the Montilyets promised—"

"That's not going to happen. Try again."

"You bring her in here. You have her admit what there was between you. I would love to see her face  _crack_  at having to breach her social etiquette, at admitting her wrongdoing aloud. Do that and I will end this. I will even give her family what was promised. I must admit, she is a master negotiator when her reputation is not at stake."

Evelyn goes into the hall and asks one of the guards to fetch Josephine. She returns to the room. Otranto has continued to eat dinner, in a companionable mood now. "I've poured you wine," he nods at the goblet. "Antivan. The very best. Not like the piss you get in Ferelden or Orlais. Do you enjoy our cuisine and women, Inquisitor?"

She ignores him. Josephine arrives not long after. She looks remarkably calm and Evelyn envies her. Her heart beats uncontrollably. She wants to destroy the room. She wants to lash out at everything. Evelyn waits until the guard has exited the room and it's the three of them. "Lord Otranto has said he will give in to your demands and end the engagement," her voice hitches. She clears her throat. "If you will confess what he believes transpired between us."

"A very fine deal," Otranto smiles. "Your Inquisitor will not duel for you," he says with exaggerated melancholy, "nor will she pay your debts to my family to get you out of this unhappy affair. So, I leave it in your hands, Lady Montilyet. Tell me now, before the both of us, that you fucked this woman and you wish to end our engagement to return to her and I shall let you go to her."

Josephine smirks. "You must think me quite foolish, Lord Otranto. You know full well any such admission would make my family liable to yours for much greater than what my family owes under the present contract."

"Ah, ha. Do you see, Inquisitor, how she admits we remain engaged?" Otranto drinks his wine and offers the goblet to Evelyn again before pouring it into his own glass. Evelyn's stomach turns. "What a stubborn woman. What of you, Inquisitor? Do you wish to confess on her behalf? Will you speak to me of how my betrothed was your whore? Tell me, is she as icy and boring in the sheets as she is in person?"

Evelyn hears a glass smash, silverware clutter, her crown clattering. Otranto's on the floor. She's on top of him, her fist balled. She smashes her fist into his face, again, hearing his nose crunch. Swearing, screaming, Josephine pulling at her, arms around her waist, having almost no effect. Evelyn recovers her senses and gets to her feet, heaving for breath. She scoops the crown from the floor, foolishly allowing it to stab into her hand again. Blood runs out of his nose, twisted and swollen. He wipes it away and sneers. "A great deal of passion for a woman who never meant anything to you, Inquisitor." The guards burst into the room. "She has assaulted me," he tells them. "Is this how you treat your guests, Inquisitor?"

Evelyn leaves the room and walks, stalking down corridors, every piece of her shaking. Josephine moves after her, calling her name. Evelyn doesn't slow until Josephine runs, catches her hand. Evelyn rears on her, eyes flashing. "You  _lied_  to me. You did not break your engagement. You wanted me to threaten him? To pay him? To resolve it? You would not break it now. I will  _not_  help you the way I did with the House of Repose. I've had my time, Ambassador. This is finished. We are finished. For good. From this point forward, you will call me Your Worship, you will call me Inquisitor, you will call me Herald, but you shall never call me Evelyn again. Be. Gone."

Josephine stops. Or time has slowed. Josephine turns from her and goes. Everything feels far and tight. Evelyn moves, losing her footing briefly before recovering, ignoring the concern of the guards, wiping hastily at her scalding eyes, fighting the suffocating oppressiveness of emotion.

* * *

"I hope you are happy." Josephine has returned to the room in a daze. And yet she sounds composed. Perhaps she is mad. Perhaps she is ice. She takes a seat at the table.

Otranto smiles, picks up the chair and sets it right again. He sits, the blood drying over his mouth. "I have been in worse scuffles. Did it excite you to see her attack me that way? For your honor?" He smiles wider. His men exchange glances.

It did excite her. But that's ruined now. She was the one to ruin it. "You keep your guards here. Do you fear me as well?"

"Don't be absurd. I fear your Inquisition, that is not so honorable and Andrastian as it pretends. I wonder, Lady Montilyet, is something broken inside of you, that you will ruin yourself and your happiness, to keep your social graces? Does your family know what you sacrifice? Do they care? It is most fascinating. I will enjoy getting to know you further."

"I wish I could say the same, Lord Otranto. While your face was once pleasing to the eye, it now matches your ugliness within." No healer or mage will come for him. His nose will remain twisted.

He scoffs. "You make me the villain?" He tsks. "Will you not take any responsibility for your actions?"

"I  _loathe_  you."

"I know. But you will come to like me. Perhaps some day you will even love me. I can be very charming."

"I haven't noticed."

"Ah, and now you play coy. I suppose that is your talent, Ambassador." She flinches at the title. "So, now that your Inquisitor is done with the both of us for the moment, what shall I do with myself?" He waves his guards away. Josephine watches them leave and listens to the door close behind them. "Where shall we be wed? At your family estate or mine? I have the vineyards but your estate overlooks the water. We could set lanterns on the boats and the water."

"You've thought of this," she says derisively. Though she has always loved the ocean, the sound of the water crashing against the docks. Lights on the water, on the docks would be striking. It would be a fine place to be married, surrounded by her family. "I have thought only of being rid of you."

"Yet here we are, with only each other for company." He stands, pouring a goblet of wine and bringing it to her. Again, reflex makes her take it. He keeps the bottle and takes a drink from it. "The night is young. We are betrothed." He sinks, bringing his face close to hers. "Let's make love. You must have that fire somewhere. I am a giving lover." Her eyes flick to his, to his mouth, that isn't the mouth she craves. "Show me you are not all you appear."

"I could not show the one I love that I am more than I appear." She hurt Evelyn. She hurt herself. What she wants is the wine. What she wants is to let him take her, to forget for even one night, for somebody to want her. Even with the blood, even with his actions, some part of her desires it, would find it exciting, if her betrothed took her on the filthy floor. Some piece of her would want Evelyn to find out, for it to hurt her. To kiss his blood away, to undo her heroics. But she can't. Maybe she is ruined. Maybe she just doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. "Why should I give you  _anything_?" She pours the wine on the floor, on his boots and throws the goblet. It flies and hits the wall before falling to the floor with a clank.

* * *

The Ambassador nearly knocks her over in her haste. Hawke watches her go and turns her attention back to the room where she exited. Lord Otranto comes to the door, his clothes in disarray, his face bleeding. Hawke isn't sure if they've just had a spectacularly rough fuck or if something more sinister is afoot. "Did you do something to her?" Hawke asks.

"Do you see my face?" He points. Antivans are so dramatic. "What would I have done to her? I kept her as my betrothed."

Hawke makes a face. His pants are wet. Did he piss himself? He smells like a brewery. "On purpose? My condolences." He shoots her a look and straightens his shirt, tucking it into his pants. "What's the point of marrying someone who doesn't want you? You're pretty and apparently stupid. There are many noblewomen who would love to have you. I'm not one of them, before you ask."

"Her family gave me their word."

"Without asking her."

"They had no need to ask her," he snaps. "Do you know anything?"

"Yes?" He goes into the room and slams the door. Hawke forgets him and hurries down the hall. She's meant to meet Cassandra in the garden. Is it a euphemism? The  _garden_? Maker. Where's Isabela when she needs her?  _Teach me, wise one, how to whore_. To her credit, Isabela had tried and often. She remembers Carver bristling in the corner, holding a pint of beer in his hands while Isabela ran her fingers through Hawke's hair and put pretty whispers in her ears about the fun things they could be doing instead. Some part of her was  _curious_  but she never gave it any real thought. It's her own fault, really. She met Anders, she felt safe. He was like her. She settled down. As settled down as she could be given her life. And now he's gone and she's… confused. Now she's… fooling about with someone that's scarier than a bloody templar. What the fuck is she doing?

Maybe she shouldn't meet Cassandra in the garden.  _Or is it **garden**_? What if she gets lost? What if she trips and falls face first into—Oh, but she's got to know how to do that. Certainly, she could never accuse Anders of being a selfish lover. He was very good to her. But… The night is bloody hot. She brings a hand to her face; her cheeks are scalding. This will not do.

She moves faster as if trying to outrace her thoughts, her embarrassment. She and Cassandra have barely had a moment to talk in Skyhold. And she isn't sure whether it's Cassandra who's avoiding her or the other way around. If not for the letter Cassandra thrust into her hand the night prior as she passed her by, Hawke might have wondered whether she'd forgotten the thing entirely.

_Meet me in the garden._  No quotation marks. As sinister as:  _we know_.

So here she is. Hawke lingers in the hall and looks out. It isn't much of a garden at the moment. The snap frost from the past few days has wilted most of the flowers that were growing. Cassandra sits on a stone bench with a book in her lap. Maybe what she needs is one of Isabela's sex how-tos. Hawke moves into the garden, catching herself swinging her arms awkwardly before she stops. "Cassie!"

"Do not call me that." Cassandra says slamming the book shut. She sets it down and her hands lift anxiously to her hair. "I must reschedule."

"What? You're the one who asked me here."

"Yes. I know. But I just saw Josephine. She looks upset."

"She always looks upset."

"Only when you're around."

Hawke shrugs. Fair point. "I saw her leave Lord Otranto's room. He looked a mess. She might have kicked the shit out of him. She's got to put that frustration somewhere, I suppose."

"What are you talking about?" Hawke tells her but instead of easing her worry, Cassandra only frowns deeper. "I should attend to her."

"I didn't know you two were friends."

"Someone ought to be a friend to her."

"She has… oh, I don't know. Leliana, right?" Cassandra is unimpressed and Hawke saunters closer, not missing how Cassandra tenses. "I think you're inventing excuses to get away from me." She pouts and is discouraged at how she feels. Not the usual jocular feeling when she makes the expression. "But," she adds suspiciously, "you do have a kind heart. So… maybe not entirely? We could go together."

"You'd just put her in a foul mood."

"You seem to bear me just fine." She takes Cassandra's hand but releases it when she feels how tense it is. "All right." She doesn't know what to do with her hands. Maybe Halamshiral was an odd night and nothing more. It would be easier to believe that. It would be easier for her to… She runs a hand absently through her hair. "All right," she says again, feeling lost. "Good luck. Goodnight."

This is for the best. At least she knows what garden Cassandra intended. And that's more than she had before arriving. Is it normal to be so depressed about something she wasn't sure she wanted? Cassandra calls out her name. Hawke turns, resigned. "I have been trying to read for you." She lowers her head. "Filthy things."

Hawke brightens. "You have? Such as?" She lunges for the book but Cassandra is quick. One swipe and she's lifted it in her hand and Hawke is suddenly reduced to a toddler, trying desperately to reach for the book that is out of grasp. If she didn't think Cassandra would deck her on reflex, she'd try tickling her to get it out of her. "It can't be filthier than Varric's work." Or Isabela's.

"Dorian gave it to me." Oooh. "I was browsing the Chantry texts for some kind of guidance and he tells me it was nestled in there. I do not like how he said that word 'nestled'. I think  _he_  put it in there. The pages are worn," she tells her chagrined. "I pretended to take it for… the right reasons. To be rid of it. But he knew."

Hawke smiles. "What have you learned?"

"Nothing I can repeat."

"That good?"

"There are diagrams."

Hawke reaches again for the book but once more, Cassandra moves it out of reach as Hawke knew she would. She kisses her instead, gratified when Cassandra returns the kiss with surprising heat, disappointed when she breaks it. Hawke plucks the book out of her hand while she's distracted. "Why not we do it together? The reading. We can take turns on the passages."

"Give it back."

"Take it." Cassandra reaches across and snatches it away. That wasn't how she anticipated that going. She tests her wrist. "Maker, you're strong." What's her puny mage strength compared to that? "Why did you ask me here if not for kisses or pillow talk?" She considers. "Have you decided never to see me again? It'll be hard, both of us being in the Inquisition and all." She grins tremulously. "Or," she adds more cheerfully, "have you come to invite me to your quarters?"

"No."

"To which?"

"All of it." She takes a breath. "I will be honest with you. I never thought… This is the Inquisition. And I already told the Inquisitor I do not have an affinity for women."

"But that's Trevelyan. I'm far more charming. Make an exception?"

"I already have. And I do not know if it's too much." Hawke nods absently. "It's true… there was a part of me that was… I don't know. Taken by your story and actions. When Varric spoke of you—he did so with his usual flair. But he also spoke of you with love. You earned that from him and others. Now that I have met you and spent time with you… I can see why people are so taken. I want to give myself to you. I just don't know if I should."

"Do I get a vote?"

"No." Hawke smiles. "But you did give me the opportunity to consider it in Halamshiral. And I am still considering it. Are you serious about this?" Hawke's smile flounders. "It's just that—I do not wish for there to be regrets. Or hurt for either of us. I have to be sure."

"But how will you be sure if you keep away from me?"

"I will pray."

"To the Maker?" That's not fair. Cassandra shoots her a look. Who else, it says. "This is silly. If we like one another let's just spend time together."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you are charming and convincing and I will get carried away. I am not entirely convinced it isn't another source of magic you wield."

"You can't blame  _me_  for that. As a seeker, you are literally immune from my charms. If you want me, that's you and you alone. Though I won't complain." Cassandra looks conflicted about it. Hawke bites the inside of her lip. "Want to play seeker / circle mage?" Cassandra pushes past her. "Where are you going?" Cassandra doesn't tell her. But she does take the book.

* * *

Leliana hears the footsteps over the squawks of the ravens, unsteady as they walk the curl of the rookery stairs. The ravens cease their talk upon spotting their visitor. Leliana waits for her approach but the Inquisitor remains at a distance. She's heard there was an incident with the Inquisitor and Josephine's betrothed, yet he is alive and remains in Skyhold. Leliana knows little more, save that Josephine was also present. She'll find out soon enough.

"Afraid of the dark?" Leliana asks, but supposes that given her experiences in Crestwood and elsewhere, she might be. Leliana once heard her screaming in the night while walking the halls.

Evelyn moves closer. Her face the color of moonlight and just as unreadable. Eventually she takes a seat opposite of her on the worktable. Her eyes are leagues away. Yes, she's seen that look before, not only on the templars. She's worn it, too. "I've come for the names of the lost."

Leliana stands and opens the small black chest where she keeps those things she holds dear, removing the silver container and setting it in the table in front of her. Evelyn looks at it, reaches for it, fingers struggling with the latch before getting it open.

The names, on rolled parchment, fall into her shaky hand. She sets the parchment, the size of her index finger, on the table and grips her left hand with the right to keep it from trembling before quickly lowering her hands beneath the table, out of sight. She keeps her face down. Leliana can't see it in the shadows. When she lifts her hands, she takes the rolled parchment and begins unspooling it. There's blood on her fingers, across the knuckles like a rose in bloom. Leliana wonders if she knows.

She watches Evelyn scan the document. "There are other records," Leliana says. "More specific. Where and when. By whose hand."

"Do you remember all of them?"

"Yes." Evelyn glances at her. Perhaps she does not believe her. "Devon. Lucas. Juliette. Mathilde. Violet. Kerry. Jude. Thomasin. Rebecca—"

"I don't know those names. Haven?"

"The Temple of Sacred Ashes. The massacre that you survived. It was you that walked out of that darkness." Guilt touches Evelyn's features and spreads in ripples before she stills. Justinia died to save her. Was it worth it? Leliana hadn't thought so. Now she wonders. It's so like Justinia to do something like that for a woman she doesn't know.

"What's the seventy-third name?" Leliana tells her. Evelyn trails her finger over the parchment, tracking it. "How can you know all of them?" She's frustrated, bringing curled fingers to her forehead.

Leliana takes the parchment from her before she rips it. "The Inquisition has not been easy. On nights when I could not sleep, I took these names and wrote them down so I could remember the cost, so I could remember the sacrifice is worth it."

"How do you know when it's worth it?"

"I don't know. I imagine there are times you don't know until it's too late. And then—you're either left with a good conscience—or regret." She has many of those. Years worth. She has strived to make herself more efficient, she has strived to make herself more pragmatic. It has worked. Perhaps to a fault. But still, there have been mistakes and she thinks sometimes those mistakes came as a cost of her weakness. Every time she believes she has hardened herself enough, something comes along to prove her wrong. Perhaps it is because her belief is so fractured. "Did I ever apologize?"

Evelyn places her hands on the table, fingers fiddling before they lower beneath the table again. "For what?"

"For Haven?" She smiles but it isn't warm. "I suppose for the attack on Skyhold, too, while you were at Adamant. Our agents were going silent in Haven. I was… worried. So I pulled the rest back. If I'd not done that, we might have had some warning."

"We might have lost all our agents."

"That's their job. To die when they must. That's my decision to make. I'm here because I'm not sentimental. I'm not meant to be. But I was. And I cost us lives. Innocent lives." She stands and looks at the ravens. They turn to her, black eyes glistening. "I'm surprised you haven't mentioned it before. I've given you a hard time."

"I was terrified of you."

"Do you mean you're not anymore?"

"Should I be?" Leliana looks back at her. "I hadn't thought about it," she says more quietly.

"No? And this most recent attack on Skyhold. It was the same thing as Haven. So close to the fact. Once again, my agents went silent. This time, I was determined to do the right thing, the hard thing, so I kept them there. They're still silent. They brought no news. Their names are on that list." The anger creeps into her voice but who is she angry at? "That's why I remember. It's the least I can do." She sits again and sees her writing on blank parchment, eyes flicking to the list of the dead. "What's this?"

"I should know this as well as you."

"That is not your burden."

"I'm the Inquisitor. Of course it's my burden. It shouldn't be yours alone." Leliana glares but isn't sure why. The quill shakes in Evelyn's hand, her handwriting not the neat script Leliana's accustomed to in her reports. "These deaths are not your fault. Lay blame justly: this was Corypheus." She dips the quill in the inkwell and nearly knocks it over.

"Inquisitor—"

Evelyn withdraws her hand and sets the quill down delicately, curling her fingers. Her voice is hoarse. "Have you water?"

Leliana brings her a cracked wooden cup and pours from a small pitcher. The Inquisitor takes the water, drinking greedily before she sets the cup down and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood on her lips. Leliana stares at it and dips a folded cloth into a nearby bucket filled with water. She takes Evelyn's hand and wipes the blood from it. Evelyn appears ready to protest but thinks better of it. Her freezing fingers quake in Leliana's hands. "What of the DuParaquettes?" Leliana asks quietly. "Are those Corypheus as well?"

She shakes her head. "That was me."

"Not you alone." But she who sent the order, she who read the reports, she who made sure it was complete. "Sometimes the right thing requires horrific methods."

"What if we only convince ourselves it's the right thing?" she's sweating.

"Why do you have blood on your hands?"

"What?" Leliana turns her hand so she can see. There are cuts on her palm as well. Evelyn frowns. "I lost my temper earlier."

Ah, so that was the incident with Otranto. "Did you make some sweeping romantic gesture?" Josephine must be thrilled.

"I don't have a romantic bone in my body."

"I don't believe that. Everyone has some romance inside of them. We only suppress it." A beat. "Is Josie pleased with you?" Evelyn's expression darkens. That's a no, then. Leliana studies Evelyn's hands. Bruised and red but the blood has been cleaned. She holds her fingers an instant longer, perhaps only seeking to provide some warmth before releasing them. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I'd rather not. I know that you and the ambassador are close. I don't wish to put you in an awkward position."

Josephine and she are not as close as they once were. Leliana is unsure whether the perpetrator is Evelyn or her own actions during the Inquisition. "You'd be surprised at how flexible we become at any position, no matter how awkward, with practice." Ah, that was terrible phrasing. Sometimes she wonders if some of that playfulness the Game requires is simply simmering beneath the surface, looking for an opportunity to be bubble to the surface.

Evelyn picks up the quill anew. "Oh?"

She saw the way the Inquisitor looked at her in Halamshiral. No one has looked at her that way in years. But she could be pretty then. She exchanged the shadows for makeup, a spymaster's robes for dresses and knives for smiles. She was almost human. Now they're back in Skyhold and the Inquisitor's gaze has withdrawn. Perhaps things with Josephine have mended. Perhaps it's the withdrawal. "For example, earlier today, I had to sign for a package. It was Grand Duchess Florianne's head. Can you believe it?"

"You had to sign for it? You've signed for heads before?" Her expression verges between horror and amusement.

"It's already begun to smell. Not even the cold could preserve it. I wish I had that innocence of youth, when you fancied that dead bodies might smell of roses. Of course, you pick up fanciful ideas like that when you spend the majority of your childhood reading. Now so much of the land smells that way and it's just another smell. Like pig shit."

"What will we do with a head? Why did they send it here?"

"They expect you to judge it. It's the Orlesian way and the Empress' gift for your assistance."

"Let's exchange it for something better. I could do without such gifts." Leliana smiles. Evelyn glances at her, stares for a beat and resumes writing the names on the list. "I spent much of my childhood doing the same. Reading. I was primarily raised by governesses and nannies." She dips the quill in the ink and frowns. "You probably knew that."

She did. "They never lasted very long."

"I'm sure it had everything to do with my winning personality." She watches the ink dry on the parchment.

"You were a child." She wonders what the Inquisitor would have been like if her mother had not died in childbirth, just as she sometimes wonders what she would be, if her mother had not died when she was so young. Would her mother have brought her to that ball where she met Marjolaine? She shouldn't be ungrateful. Lady Cecilie was kind to her. How damning kindness can be.

Evelyn sets the quill down delicately. Dots of ink spill from the tip, staining the table. She stands slowly. "I'm really tired." Leliana nods. "I'll return and finish this when I'm feeling more…" Leliana waits but she doesn't finish. "I didn't think there were so many names. Some of them aren't even names," her teeth grit, some energy returning to her. " 'Boy, 7'. 'Woman, 40s?'" The anger brings some color to her cheeks.

"These are not your failures but mine." Evelyn glowers at the parchment. Leliana sees the last name written. 'Flissa'. "It was a mistake to share this." She begins to roll up the list but Evelyn clamps a surprisingly weak hand around her wrist.

"I will not be a leader, blind to what has been lost."

"Nor will you be, if you allow yourself to sink into despair." Their eyes meet, both bristling with ice. "Will you remove your hand, Inquisitor? Or shall I?" Evelyn lowers her gaze and removes her hand. Leliana finishes rolling up the parchment and slips it into its silver container. "You should rest. Your recovery is important."

"My recovery? From what?"

"From everything," Leliana tells her plainly. She picks up the wet cloth, taking firm hold of Evelyn's chin, wiping the blood from her mouth. "There you are."

* * *

Josephine exits into the night numb from the wine, the events of the day, the cold slapping into her after the scalding bath that wasn't enough to sear all feeling from her.  _Be. Gone._ She drank a bottle of wine but it barely registers. It is only enough to steady her. If only she could go to Leliana. She would cry in her lap. Leliana would stroke her back and whisper reassurances. But she doesn't trust her anymore. Not herself. Not anyone. What if she sided with the Inquisitor?

She holds her arms close and wanders Skyhold. The Inquisitor's room is dark. Has she gone to bed? Is she in another's bed? She always did like to whore. She is likely eager to move on from the frigid woman who occupied her life for so long. She needs to forget her words. She must not think of them. She will sob again if she does. Would Otranto have kept his word? If she had said it in front of only the two of them? It would have been different from Halamshiral. Yet, she would have shamed her family, disappointed them. Instead, she must disappoint herself.

She pushes into the tavern. She hates it here. It raises the spirits and morale of their people but it smells, it's hot, everyone is always pressed too tightly together. She doesn't like the sour smell of the beer and unwashed bodies. She does not know why she's here, except that she seeks an escape from all that is familiar. She doesn't know if she wants this numbness or needs to flee from it.

Sera is on a table, recounting a story, doubled over with laughter. The others around her shake their head as she stretches her arms out as far as she can. Maker knows what she's talking about. She moves through the crowd, unsure if she searches for familiar faces or unfamiliar faces. The Iron Bull sits with his Chargers. He lifts his arm in greeting to her; it's wider around than her thigh. She nods and moves on. She isn't sure where she's going. What she wants.

She isn't sure she wants this anymore. Maybe she should return to Antiva, wed Adorno and let someone else finish her role as ambassador. No one has her skill but she is not valued and she tires of putting in so much effort for so little return. She turns toward the table where Sera sits with Dorian and the others. They've just had a round of laughter so loud the entire tavern has turned to look at them.

Blackwall thumps his hand on the table. "I want to hear the rest of it. Come on, don't tease a man."

"You pervert!" Sera says, absolutely delighted. Josephine can't recall the last time she ever laughed heartily at anything. Is that normal? Natural? She doesn't think so. Why is it only now that she's realized? She approaches the table and Sera stands straight, points a finger at her. "If it isn't Ambassador Prissy Pants!" She curtsies deeply to her before jumping back into an assertive pose. "You getting dirty with us little people tonight?" Josephine looks up at her, pale and freckled, pointed ears. Fuller for an elf. This woman saved her life. "You ever been fisted?" Dorian spits his wine out, all over Sera's legs coincidentally, but she doesn't seem to notice. Blackwall goes white, tries to tug at Sera's dress, shaking his head. "That's the end of the story, by the way," she tells him.

Josephine stares up at her. No heat touches her face. She bites back her response. How amusing, the frequency with which the voice of the Inquisition is reduced to silence in order to continue to have a voice. Sera is a curiosity. Wild and unpredictable. Dangerous. How do you appeal to a woman who is impossible to grasp? Perhaps Leliana would know, but Josephine was never so skilled at the game.

"Want a beer?" Sera offers.

Josephine doesn't but she nods and sits and drinks with them. They play Wicked Grace and she focuses on their banality, in their simpleness, condemning it and envying it in one. She collects their coin that she doesn't want or need, not for herself, hating the depths she will go to collect it for her family. She stops short of their clothes but takes their coin with her, needing some physical token of her success, no matter how small.

She wanders Skyhold further and goes to the fountain. She throws the coins in, one at a time, but she does not wish. She reflects on those dreams she's given up, what she has sacrificed, that which she would never ask another to. Except the Inquisitor. She asked her to sacrifice everything for a possibility. Isn't that romantic?

She hurls the last of the coins into the water and they splash, flinging cold water at her. A sound and she turns sharply. She finds herself panting for breath. Lord Adorno stands there, his vestments still disarrayed but his face healed of injury, handsome again. Who did it for him? She will have words with them. "So, you do have some fire in you. Some passion." She glares at him, chin trembling. Why could it not have been the Inquisitor? Why could it not have been Blackwall? Leliana? Anybody? "I knew it was there."

"You know nothing about me."

"I have seen you walking Skyhold for the past hours. Antivans value pleasure but you value control."

"They are not mutually exclusive. If you were not so limited, you would know that." He chuckles. She isn't sure whom she loathes more. She moves to him, taking a fistful of his shirt and pushing him to the stone bench until he sits. "Are you ready to be a giving lover to me, Lord Otranto?"

"You cannot be serious—"

"Are you only talk?" He looks at her a moment longer and then fumbles with his pants, planting a hand on her hip. She pushes it away, lifting her dress, shifting her small clothes and straddling him. They both draw breath. A flash of pain, mingling with heat and pleasure. It has been long since she's bedded a man. But he is of her station. He is her betrothed. Her keeper. Her tool to appropriate. The stone bench is uncomfortable against her shins but she persists, rolling her hips, grunting, satisfied when his rhythm accelerates, desperate for her. She slaps his face to slow him down. She decides the tempo, not he.

He laughs, smiling at her, delighted at his future bride. If only the Inquisitor could see her now. Would she hate her more? Would she be indifferent? Josephine wishes she could see it, the crushing disappointment on her face, just as Josephine disappointed her, herself. How the Inquisitor would question her. But it is dark and they are alone. This is her betrothed. This was an arranged marriage. This is expected. This would not be questioned. He brings his hands to her hips, to bring her closer, thrust deeper and she clings to him, wanting to absorb him like a black widow, desperate for anything to penetrate her.

* * *

Evelyn gathers her breath and takes the remaining steps up to her chambers, fingers pressed against the wall to steady her. She arrives at the room, winded and sweating. For the first time in months she recognizes the vast openness of the room, needlessly sprawling, furniture haphazardly trying to dominate the space and failing. She remembers the merciless cold. The doors to the balcony are closed, the windows shuttered but the chill slithers in like a snake.

She tries to spark a fire but her hands have no feeling and won't stop trembling. This started only a few days ago, along with the nausea and has gotten progressively worse. In her worst moments she has difficulty buttoning her clothing. All week she has felt like crying at minor things and laughed too hard at Dorian's jokes, Sera's stupidities. Today only nothingness has seized her. It is a blank terror like that in the Fade.

Halamshiral was over a week ago but she can barely remember it. Her memories are… fragmented. She remembers… Josephine. She doesn't want to remember Josephine. She remembers Leliana… but not her words. She sniffles, foregoes the fire, kicks off her boots and slides into bed. The sheets are like ice water and she wraps them around herself, pulling her limbs close to her, desperate to get warm.

She listens to her irregular breathing, sweating through her robes and sheets but the cold remains unvanquished. The world around her feels raw and unforgiving. The texture of clothing and sheets too rough. There are minutes, even hours when it's okay and she thinks she'll make it. Most often it's this. It is an eternity, this flood of emotion. She doesn't want it. She wants the song of the Maker within her, making her bold. Collected.

She mutters prayers to Him. Her throat is raw from thirst but she can't bear to get out of bed and into the cold again. How many names on that list? How many total? For moments she merely whimpers. Then she thinks of Josephine and cries. She didn't want to be the other woman. She didn't want to be the other woman anymore. Is her pride worth all of this emotion sinking its teeth into her? It's usually others who throw her away. Why does everyone lie to her? She cries until she empties and the tears dry salty on her face.

Hours pass. She's exhausted. She has been since she stopped but she tosses restlessly in the night. Sleep eludes her. She can't remember why she's doing any of this to begin with. Who's she trying to prove herself to? Cullen? Hawke? It's pointless. She just has to get through this Inquisition.

Her eyes burn. She lies there she doesn't know how long, listening to the wind before the craving seduces her. She kicks the sheets away and makes her way to the desk. She takes out the lyrium kit and swears when she nearly drops it. Her hands move unsteadily, mixing the ingredients. She just needs a little. Just a little to sleep. A little to turn her thoughts off. A little to not feel like  _this_.

She mixes the draught and waits, staring at the swirling liquid impatiently, pacing and going back to it, over and over and over again. She's mixed too much. She needs a drop. A small piece. Maybe a few drops. When it's ready she brings it to her lips. The moment the liquid touches her tongue, a touch of frost followed by heat, her head starts to clear. The sticky cobwebs of thought are pulled away and there is light again. She lets the liquid roll over her tongue and fill her mouth, a small nip, a shot, a small glass, the whole damned vial.

She pants again, licks her lips to get the last little bit and clutches her belly as the liquid pools like fire in her stomach, stretching out inside her like a torch. It warms and frosts her again. She feels sick. She feels alive. The song of the Maker fills her. She has missed it.

She sinks to the floor and lies on her side, staring at the threads of gold on the Chantry throw rug, too sharp and real. Her eyelids are becoming heavy. Her body alternates warm and cold, making her drowsy and sedate. Calm. Soothing. She'll try again tomorrow. She's done it before. Not this time but she will. She'll be able to do it, tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.


	23. Addiction

It's early morning and a light fog slinks through Skyhold making the air strikingly cold. The glaze of icy sweat remains on Cullen's brow regardless of the temperature. He makes his way to the armory, passing many eager young templar recruits who nod and salute. He acknowledges them and moves on. The armory is always a few pitches warmer than the rest of Skyhold and today is no exception.

Despite the early hour, he finds Cassandra as he anticipated he would. She sits on the second level, a book in hand. He wonders if it's more of the questionable literature he's heard about but knows it isn't his place to comment, no matter how surprising the revelation had been. She makes no motion to move or hide it so he decides it can't be. He greets her but doesn't take a seat.

"Do not tell me you have come here to ask for a replacement again," Cassandra warns him. The issue, he imagines, has grown tiresome for her. "You are fine. You can manage this. I will not find a replacement for you." She slams the book shut, one of Varric's Hard in Hightown copies, and stands.

His lips thin. It's what he wants to hear. He worries it's what  _she_  wants to hear. Some part of him wonders if he only wants her permission, her blessing to start taking lyrium again. "That's not why I'm here." He wants to press the issue. It's hard not to. "I need to speak to you about… a more delicate matter."

"Oh?" She seems apologetic though she doesn't apologize. "What is it?"

He's unsure of how to have the conversation. It's not his place. Perhaps he finds it belittling. He would hate it if others spoke behind his back of his struggles with lyrium. "I took it upon myself to speak to the Inquisitor in Halamshiral about her lyrium use. I told her it would be easier to stop now rather than later." He was surprised when she took his words to heart. He hadn't known that anything would come of the conversation. And yet, back in Skyhold he began to notice the tell tale signs: the shaky hands, the irritability, the way her shoulders sagged and her attention flitted. "It seems she heeded my advice. For a time." Then, a few days ago he saw her eyes, sharp and focused, her cheeks healthily flushed. She wasn't able to stay away from it.

Cassandra narrows her eyes. "Why did you not tell me of this?"

"It's … personal. Maker, Cassandra. It's embarrassing." She stares at him. He doesn't know how else to explain it. No one understands unless they've gone through it themselves: the cravings, the addiction, how 'normal' is no longer 'normal' without it. The templars are known for their boldness and their calm, their decisiveness. So much of that is bolstered by the lyrium. Without it, you fall apart, you question, you feel too much to remain unswayed and unsympathetic. "In any case, it appears she was using more than even I suspected."

"I haven't seen her take it." A beat. "But yes. She has been clear eyed. Collected. She has…" she says the last guiltily. "She has looked better." There's a long silence. Cullen can't remember the last time he looked at himself in a mirror and seen someone who looked genuinely healthy. "Why have you told me this, Cullen? Do you want me to monitor her as well?"

"It wouldn't hurt."

"I'm not sure why you would ask her to stop taking it."

"You can't be serious. It was becoming detrimental. If our healers can't help her, it's a problem. Our Inquisitor is afraid and that very fear could kill her." It nearly destroyed him and caused him to turn a blind eye to unspeakable horrors in Kirkwall. At the time, his actions seemed necessary. Now, he recalls them with horror. He hasn't been able to let go of the guilt. And he fears he doesn't remember everything. "Don't you understand?" Cassandra's jaw clenches. "I thought it for the best. But I fear I overstepped my bounds."

"So she went without it. For how long?"

"A week. Over a week." Remarkable given it was her first real attempt.

"If she wishes, she may go without it again."

"But is it wise?" Cassandra is silent. "She's out there doing battle. Unlike me, she's actively using her abilities on the field. We're waging a war against demons and Venatori. The abilities of a templar are… beneficial."

"She fought them before without her abilities."

"Yes. But it isn't only the abilities, Cassandra. You know what the withdrawal does to a templar after a time." It isn't just the fatigue and shaking hands. That's the least of their worries. Hallucinations. Paranoia. The inability to recall, the inability to distinguish reality from dream. "She is our Inquisitor. Can we afford to have her go through this as we battle Corypheus?"

"I do not understand this. She was a templar for ten years. She was able to stop. How is this any different? It should be easier if she only started again with the Inquisition."

"I've gone through Leliana's reports."  _Before_  she sealed them away. "As we know, Lady Trevelyan wasn't exactly… an example of Templarhood. She was lax with her vows and not particularly Andrastian. She was there because she had to be. She did not take the lyrium as instructed. Her noble status and coin got her out of many harrowing situations." Her logs from the Circle of Ostwick indicated she rarely took lyrium, despite having learned the holy techniques that are fueled by the substance. That's why she was friendly with the mages. That's why she turned against her own. She wasn't leashed.

She's dismayed. "You have gone through it."

"I'm  _still_  going through it."

"And you have done so admirably." He paces, shaking his head. "Then what do you advise we do? Have her take it? Continue taking it? Force her to?"

"I don't know," he says gruffly. Maybe he just wanted her to tell him he hadn't made a big mistake. He isn't sure what the right thing to do is. Allow her addiction and dependency? Or try to wean her from what's killing her—and hope it doesn't get her killed in the process? Maker, there are no easy answers. He looks out to the courtyard, the templars moving like marionettes, Chantry slaves, Inquisition slaves, leashed and bound to whatever path will provide their lyrium.

* * *

Lord Otranto has vacated Skyhold. Maybe he thinks that their engagement has been finalized. She did nothing to make him disbelieve it. She took him that night by the fountain and not just there. And not just that night. He is generous enough.

She timed it perfectly in the early morning that he left. She shared a brief, if not carnal kiss with him in the throne room the instant the Inquisitor left her quarters. He knew what she was doing but he played along. The Herald paused only a moment to stare before she continued moving and Josephine hated her and Otranto and herself most of all. But he's gone now. Her marriage awaits. It seems a little mad how feverishly she fought to find herself an escape route. Why? For what purpose? For herself? For the Inquisitor? No. She has duty. She has family.

She sits at her office, slicing into envelopes with the letter opener. Leliana sits opposite of her in the cushioned chair, one leg crossed delicately over the other, head bowed in introspection as she studies the intel they have. Josephine wonders if Leliana's existence is why the Inquisitor could spare her only a moment and wonders if she should hate her, too. It is a strange thing. Passion gone too far, to the core of her to rot. Being near Leliana makes her feel as if she's sitting on needles. Does Leliana feel similarly about her? Does Leliana feel anything?

"I hear Lord Otranto has left us," Leliana remarks.

What does she mean 'left us'? What does she want her to say? Shall they pretend they are friends? Josephine doesn't know whether Leliana respects her. Surely she did when she initially brought her into the Inquisition but it hasn't seemed that way for a while and it didn't seem that way in Halamshiral when she appeared bothered by her appearance on that balcony. "He has returned to Antiva, yes. We remain betrothed." Leliana folds the letter she's reading into the envelope and opens another. No comment, then? "I did as you recommended. I tried him out." She stops and looks at her then. So she can surprise someone. See. She isn't so predictable as everyone thinks. She has passion. She has desires.

Leliana sets the letter aside and smiles. "Josephine, you bad girl." She sounds delighted and Josephine flushes happily, grateful for her approval. "You must tell me all about it. Was he good to you?"

"Very. He was quite good at following instruction. Unlike others." Leliana smiles and Josephine's cheeks burn hotter. She cannot deny she enjoyed herself. She used him to pleasure her, but always in the gaps between, she felt such shame. It felt like an affair though how can it be when she has no other lover, when the Herald has denied her? It was no affair. She wanted his touch. He was gentle and she demanded more, not wanting to think of the Inquisitor's gentleness with her. Yes. If anything, Josephine loathes the Inquisitor more than ever. She pushed her to this. She has a small drink of water so she won't choke on the bitterness. "It has been some time since I've had any sort of relaxation, if you must know."

"Ah. If anyone deserves it, it's you."

Josephine isn't sure if Leliana's calling her uptight. Who is she to call her uptight? She is diligent. She does her job. "What of you, Leliana? Have you taken any lovers?" Leliana meets her eyes. Will she tell her? Would she tell her about them? "You are more than beautiful enough."

One of her smiles. It took her years to notice the sadness within. "No. I have not." But she could never read the truth in them. She has seen her lie to many, warmly, regretfully and always convince her mark of her honesty. Why did she ask if she doesn't trust her response? Josephine picks up her quill. "Josie. Are you all right?"

Is she taunting her? Or has she put on such an extraordinary performance that Leliana must test its veracity? Maybe she has to ask because Josephine has never spoken aloud of pleasure. Nothing more than hints. Everyone sees her so virginal. They want to protect her. It's endearing and infuriating. "Only I could speak of my bedroom adventures to be asked if everything is all right. Is it so out of character?" Leliana drops her chin and Josephine questions whether she's looking at the letters in her lap or if the answer is so obvious that she needs a moment to compose the answer. "You mean, of course, my relationship with the Inquisitor. Or my lack of relationship with the Inquisitor. I am sure she told you all about it." Leliana looks at her again. "Well, I am fine, I assure you. You were right to warn me of any engagement with her. What could a woman like that offer me? I am a Montilyet and she just an Ostwick noble. Ostwick! They're barely even nobles. And the seventh most prestigious noble family there. They are so irrelevant they don't even bear mentioning."

Leliana stands.

"We said from the beginning we would be nothing. Who is she to be angry at me for an engagement? If she ever cared about any kind of decorum, any sort of etiquette, she would understand my position. But no, she is stubborn and emotional, for all the ice she puts out there. She has never understood duty or responsibility. And if she cannot understand those things then she most certainly cannot ever understand me. It is for the best."

Leliana moves around the desk.

"My family would have never approved of her." She never asked but they wouldn't have. They couldn't have. What if they would have? What if she threw it all away? "And after the Inquisition is over she will just be another backwater noble. Do you know she has even forbidden me from saying her name? I am  _nothing_  to her now."

Her breathing comes too fast and it stabs into her as Leliana sinks, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her close. The tears come again. Why now? Why here? For her? Leliana breathes her assurances, stroking her hair, stroking her back. Her voice has always been soothing. Josephine holds to her, trying to stop the tears but unable to. Is she going to lose Leliana? Will she lose her too?

* * *

Hawke sits on Varric's bed, fingers trailing over the blankets. He made his bed the last time he left Skyhold. He was always a neat man. He was the best of them. She considers lying down on the bed, seeing if she can catch the scent of his cologne but decides against it. She's gotten to the point where she can go the day without crying about it. There's no sense in inviting more grief into her life.

She sits at his desk and looks through his belongings. There are books with debts owed, debts paid, how his series have been doing in all the other countries, his translated works. There are letters from Merrill, Isabela, and so many from Aveline. Oh, Maker. They don't know, do they? Someone will have to tell them. She wonders if it has to be her. She wonders how Kirkwall is, the city that took just about everything from her. She slides the letters back into the envelopes. All of them telling Varric to watch out for her. He was always good to his word, good to his friends, to a fault. Safeguarding Merrill and Anders nearly bankrupted him. Protecting her killed him.

And yet that son of a bitch Bartrand is still alive. She continues looking through his books. It seems that he was sending Viscount Bran a good sum of coin each month. But for what she can't be sure. Why would he pay that little shit anything? Perhaps for Kirkwall. He was born there. He loved it. He should have been Viscount, damn it. She hears a noise and turns. Cassandra waits at the door. She still hasn't come to find her. She's still unsure. Maybe they both are. All they seem to have are these accidental run-ins.

"What are you doing in here?" Cassandra asks.

"Trying to find some hidden letter where he confessed his love to me. No luck yet."

"You had feelings for him?"

"Everyone has feelings for Varric. Can you think of a finer male specimen?"

"Plenty."

"Such as?"

Cassandra frowns. "He was handsome." She enters the room hesitantly, the sadness touching her face. "And good." Hawke smiles, hoping Varric can hear her.  _Well, that's sweet Seeker, but I'm afraid I'm already spoken for. Isn't that right, Bianca?_  "I wasn't looking for you." That's disappointing. "But since you're here, I'd like to speak to you. Away from here, if that's all right."

Hawke straightens the items on the desk, the paperwork, the books. She doesn't want to touch it. She did this with her mother's room in Kirkwall. It occurs to her that people may have moved into the estate, stormed it and robbed it. They can take her things but the thought of her mother's room being desecrated turns her stomach. She leaves the room, waiting for Cassandra to exit before shutting it gingerly. "Where shall we go? I doubt you're taking me to your private quarters."

"I'm not. I have a question. Hypothetical. If… there was someone you knew who was taking lyrium—"

"Oh, you're talking about the Inquisitor," Hawke says. She saw her after they came back from Halamshiral. She saw her only for scant moments of time, each day paler than the one before, which was astounding given how pale the woman is to begin with. Perhaps they had a moment after all in that courtyard when the rift opened. "What about her?"

"I am not talking about the Inquisitor."

"Then who are you talking about? All the other templars taking their lyrium? You're not talking about me, are you? I'm a filthy apostate. I need my lyrium to fuel my dirty capabilities."

"Do not say that." She shoots her a look. "And yes. Fine. I'm talking about the Inquisitor." She looks around her cautiously. "There is…" she sighs. "Let's pretend we're not talking about the Inquisitor."

"But how can I make my jokes then? Fine. Carry on." They end up in the sparring area with the dummies. Hawke looks at them, their hay stuffing bleeding out of them. The poor things have had a rest recently at least. Evelyn hasn't been by to brutalize them. "If it's a conversation about this…  _person_  however, wouldn't it be best to just speak to them instead?"

"That will happen. I've spoken to Cullen and… the others. Leliana and Josephine. They are advisors as well. They must also be involved in the decision."

"What decision?"

"We are concerned about the Inquisitor's lyrium consumption."

Hawke smirks. "Haven't I been talking about this for months now?"

"You talk about so many things I can't keep track of it all." She sighs. "The issue is the Inquisitor's safety. I suppose she is… trying to make a point. Probably to you," she accuses. "The way you get under her skin, it's no wonder."

"You know that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you? I don't blame her. Your cheekbones could put anyone under a spell. I'd be jealous if it was her you were kissing." Not that they've had that since the garden.

"Be serious. Why do I have to say that you every time we talk?" She takes a seat on the bench and Hawke watches her. "Don't you ever learn?" Hawke shrugs. "In any case—Maker, you've made me forget what I was saying."

"It's my fault she's trying to make a point because— I don't know?"

"Oh, yes. The lyrium. I would not be fooled by her words. Prior to your meeting, she spoke very highly of you."

"Prior to our meeting. Well, you should never meet your heroes."

"In any case— there have been some disadvantages to the lyrium. Primarily that she thinks she's a one woman military and rushes needlessly into action. It makes her reckless. But—otherwise, I feel that there are improvements. She is more focused and not so… I don't know. Petulant."

"I'm not sure why you're telling me any of this." Cassandra stares straight ahead at the practice dummy. "I think it's good that she's trying to go without it. It was making her crazy. You have to know that." What would have happened if Blackwall and Carver hadn't been there the day after Cassandra was attacked by that dragon on the way to Adamant? Would Evelyn have killed her? She tries not to think about it.

"I do not agree. Yes—her capabilities are strong. And sometimes her spell breaking is… challenging." Hawke frowns. Yes. Challenging to put it mildly. To be left without her magic on the field. To be unable to bloody heal her when she's injured. What if Evelyn were a seeker like Cassandra? Would she be able to make the lyrium in her blood come to a boil? She can't imagine that kind of pain. "But primarily for you. She has kept us safe. Particularly from the Venatori. Her enemies, the Inquisitions enemies are primarily Venatori and demons."

"What are you saying?" Hawke looks at her, stupefied. "You know what lyrium does to templars. You know what it did to Meredith."

"That was red lyrium."

"And Cullen? Have you forgotten what he was like? I haven't. His talks left marks, remember?" How often did he pull her into the Gallows to speak to her of her associates? Before he found out, before the night of the qunari attack, he would talk to her, sometimes all night, trying to get her to confess to her magical talents. He was unrelenting and steely calm. Sometimes he hit her. And she bore it because she didn't want her family exposed, Carver exposed, her mother exposed as someone harboring an apostate. Does he remember that? She hasn't forgotten.

"Do not insult him."

"The truth isn't an insult."

"He is a good man. And he sided with you in the end."

"It doesn't excuse his past behavior." She paces. "Why bring this up to me? Do you want my blessing or— I don't understand." Cassandra looks at her pleadingly. "Do you think if you get my okay, that will make whatever decision you've already formed all right? Well, I'm not giving it to you. I don't think she should have lyrium. I don't think any of them should have lyrium. It turns them all into soulless bastards. It's the lyrium that does it. Otherwise, how can I believe that the horrors that went on in that Circle tower—the rapes, the beatings, the murders—that it was all… just human nature? I can't believe that. I won't. So many of them were corrupt. You have no idea. But no one ever annuls a Circle of templars."

"I understand your position—"

"No you don't." She's a Seeker. She couldn't begin to understand her position.

"But I need to keep her safe."

"The lyrium is a crutch. It isn't a babysitter. It isn't armor. You want her safe? Do your bloody job and keep her safe."

* * *

Evelyn sits on a patch of yellow grass overlooking a thawing lake, unsure of how long she's been there. She pulls at the wilted blades and watches them scatter in the air. The horse next to her digs at the ground, kicking up small mounds of dirt. She tries to clear her head. She's left the lyrium in her quarters. She's decided to start over again this morning. She isn't sure how she made it so long the first time. Perhaps she was holding on to hopes that things with Josephine would work out. That Josephine deserved someone who was… better. This is her third time starting over this week. It's always manageable for the first few hours. She sits outside to take the ache out of her muscles. It's better than nothing.

She studies the horizon. The land has a golden haze to it. Evelyn stares at it, watching it twist and warp. Cole emerges from the air. Evelyn's fingers dig into the hard ground. He takes the few steps to bridge their distance and sits next to her. She moves slightly when the brim of his hat threatens to brush against her.

"You're scared of me when it's your kind who hurts."

Her body goes hard with tension. She hates his nonsense talk. She doesn't like him. She doesn't trust him. Spirits. "Go away, Cole."

"You called me here. You've been out here a long time, trying to make it stop. You want the cold to forget it hurts. But corpses are cold. And lakes. The ground. Things. You want warm, but you're afraid of it, too. So much hurt makes you want to make it all go away. But good things can only be felt when you feel." She clenches her teeth. "You weren't scary in Therinfal. That's why I helped. But now the pain and the fear are curled inside you. That's why you took the lyrium. Lambert did bad things when he was afraid. Everyone does. 'What if I can't stop taking it? What if they're right and I've ruined everything?' But you're trying and that means something. Even if you've already failed. It won't be cold forever. It doesn't have to be."

She stands. Fine. If the spirit or demon, or whatever the Void he is won't leave her alone, she'll leave. She takes the reins of the horse and plans her foot on the stirrup, climbing up. Cole stands too, looking up at her with his sad, long face. What the Void can a spirit feel? What can it know of pain? It's not real. "I don't want you poking around in my head."

"I want to help you."

"You can't."

She returns to Skyhold, returning the horse to the barn, grateful Blackwall isn't skulking about with his heavy and concerned eyes. She doesn't need it. She needs the strength of her hands, warmth on her fingertips. She can't return to her quarters. Not that it matters. Lyrium is everywhere and anyone would give it to her without question. There's no real reason to stop taking it. But what if she panics in the midst of battle again? What if she's injured and her fear wields like a knife, cutting down any mage's attempt to heal her? What if the Inquisition dies along with her because she was afraid? She can't risk it. She has to stop.

She walks the grounds and tries not to think of Josephine heatedly kissing Otranto. Were they fucking the entire time? Her hands clench, tongue moving reflexively in her mouth as if to search for a hint of lyrium, some peace, some calm. The storm has passed. It will be fine. She just needs to keep busy. The trouble is she doesn't want to be near anyone. How can anyone stand her when she finds it impossible to be in her own skin? The feeling isn't entirely foreign. She's not unaccustomed to disappointing others. And no one is expecting this of her, yet, she can't help but think they would judge her if they knew she'd tried and failed. All their worries would be validated.

If only she could drink and fuck herself into calm like she used to. But she can't. She can't do that anymore. Not to herself and not to the Inquisition. How easy would it be to find some release? Someone impressed by her title, someone who wanted the favor of the Inquisitor? But it isn't what the title is for. What happened with Flissa can't ever be allowed to happen again. She bites her tongue, frustrated.

She sees Cassandra and Hawke in the distance, standing by the practice dummies, completely unaware of anyone else around them. Hawke shakes her head and leaves Cassandra, even when Cassandra stands and appears to call after her.

Evelyn moves on, not wanting to be seen. She heads to the rookery. It's isolated with only the shrieks of the ravens for noise. Their agents are quiet. She can't go to the library. Dorian will find her and his cheer and energy would be egregious and she'd snap at him and be sorry all over again. She'll work on the names of the dead. That will be enough to sober her and it's unlikely that Leliana will be present.

She climbs up, the worrying lethargy settling into her limbs. She pushes herself, absently rubbing fingertips that feel as if they've been dipped in ice. Their agents look at her and nod, returning to their quiet conversations. Evelyn knows some of their names but not all. No matter how she tries to stay on top of things, to know every facet of this Inquisition, it always seems to be beyond her. She exchanges quick hellos, thanking them for their work before retreating to Leliana's worktable.

She searches through the papers and the books for the list of names, even for her own but they're nowhere to be found. No, of course not. She placed them in that chest. Evelyn stares at it, black and worn, sturdy, hard wood, smooth and silken beneath her fingertips.

"Inquisitor." Evelyn turns to find Leliana. Her blue eyes flit over her face as if searching for structural weaknesses. It makes Evelyn feel insecure and she stands up straighter to compensate. "Trying to break into my chest?" Evelyn stares dumbly and Leliana goes to her, settling a gloved hand atop of it.

"I intended to work on that list further."

"That again." Her voice always sounds pleasantly put out around her. "I've told you it's a bad idea, no?"

Has she? "But you will share it," Evelyn insists. Leliana considers and then silently opens the chest, giving her the names, giving her the papers Evelyn previously worked on as well. She looks at the handwriting, shaky and at times illegible. Her face heats with embarrassment. Leliana must have seen this. Maker, what must she think of her? She mutters her gratitude and sits again finishing the list of before, letting it depress her and starting anew. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"Hoping to avoid me?"

Evelyn throws a scattered glance in her direction before returning to the papers. "Hoping to avoid everyone, frankly." She feels Leliana's eyes as she works but doesn't take her attention from the papers. "Yes?" Leliana doesn't answer and Evelyn looks at her. Still, nothing. "Well, I'm glad we've had this chat."

"You do have your private quarters."

Evelyn finishes the name she's writing. "It's cold in there." It's warmer here but just barely. The sunlight doesn't penetrate but the cozy fires of below lift a cloud of warmth to the level.

"Is that the only reason?"

"What do you care what my reasons are?" What is she getting at? She picks up her papers and delicately rolls the names of the dead up to store away. Her hands have only a small tremor, not the desperate violence of before. But likely it will come. Evelyn hands her the list. "Sorry. I don't mean to snap. I've… not been sleeping." That's the simplest way to put it. When she took the lyrium for the first time after vowing to quit, she fell into a haze followed by a deep sleep that lasted half a day. She spent the following day in a horrible daze, feeling as if someone else were wearing her body. But now she's irritable and tired and cold and angry beneath.

"No rest for the wicked, hm? Don't worry, I won't tell Thedas."

Evelyn wonders if Leliana still considers her useless. "I'd worry if the spymaster was giving my secrets away. She's got every last one." She taps her rolled papers on the table with a tired, wry smile. "I've got them all so I won't be back to rifle through your things."

"As if you could have gotten in."

"You forget, I have the key that opens everything," she lifts her hand and the light in it crackles as if in greeting. Evelyn winces. Every once in a while the Anchor begins to flare and the pain is unimaginable.

"Let's just hope your confidence is justified."

"You doubt it?"

"I doubt a great many things, Inquisitor. As you may well know."

"Me?"

A beat. "There's something I must speak to you about." Evelyn waits, unsure if the absence of an answer is answer enough. "As you know, Ferelden has been unhappy with the Inquisition for some time. They'll attempt to disband us, of that I have no doubt. Recently they've sent a woman I believe you're familiar with."

"Please don't tell me it's my great aunt Lucille."

"If only. Your old friend. Brynn Cousland." Evelyn holds on to the table. The last time she saw that woman, her hand was between her legs. Not entirely different from one of their first meetings when Evelyn was sixteen. "I know your past with her. Don't repeat old mistakes, Inquisitor. It could cost us greatly."

"She's here, here?"

"That's what I'm told. I've yet to set sights on her. I believe she might attempt to use your old… familiarity against you. Against the Inquisition. I have no doubt she's working with Arl Teagan, who has been… unhappy—to put it mildly, since the attack at Skyhold. So once again, I urge caution. Do not reveal anything to her."

"I've got it, Leliana." How many other ways must she warn her?

"Josephine has been charged with giving her the tour and attending to her every need." Oh, lovely. Josephine giving a tour to the woman Evelyn badmouthed her to ages ago. "Though we must be mindful, we also have to treat her with the highest courtesy."

"I'm not sure which woman you're talking about."

"Both, of course."

Evelyn stiffens. It was bound to happen eventually. If this were closer to the beginning she wouldn't doubt Leliana would stab her to get her point across. Maybe she's biding her time. Or maybe things have improved between them, if only marginally. "Do you need to have a talk with me?"

"Don't get smart, Inquisitor." She sighs and turns away from her, crossing her arms and looking up at the ravens. What bothers her, Evelyn wonders. "I can't talk right now. You should probably go." Evelyn gathers her things. So much for things having bettered between them. "One more thing." Evelyn looks at her but Leliana keeps her eyes on the ravens or maybe at the sunlight above. "There will be a war room meeting soon. It would be best to keep your composure."

"What?"

"I can say no more."

* * *

Josephine regards Brynn Cousland. This is the woman she was obsessed with over a year ago when she first met the Inquisitor. She is nothing special to look at. An aged beauty, in her mid-forties. She must have been stunning as a younger woman. Chestnut hair streaked with grey. Though her clothing is of the finest quality, she looks around Skyhold like a thief looking to score. Josephine has already had the servants take the woman's belongings to a guest bedroom and now  _she_  is saddled with her. She made her threats to this woman long ago, warning her to not be near the Inquisitor or speak of her and now she dares to present herself here. Arl Teagan—perhaps soon to be King Teagan—must have made her a considerable offer.

They come at last to Josephine's office and Brynn looks around, pulling her white gloves off and slapping them into her hand. "Skyhold is a sight to behold," Brynn assures her. "I can't believe Evelyn was able to pull something like this together. She's always had a flighty way to her. You must have noticed that."

Josephine hasn't forgotten how this woman made the Inquisitor sound, all this time later. "The Inquisitor has been capable in her duties." She is no longer sure that she can accuse the woman of being flighty.

"How about some wine?" Brynn asks. Josephine snaps her fingers at one of the servants who leaves hastily to get it. "I'm surprised by all the servants. The Inquisition must be doing well to keep them in their employ. Unless all these elves work for free?"

"Every member of the Inquisition contributes in their own way. We take care of our own." It is not quite an answer and Brynn knows it. She will not discuss their financial situation with this strumpet looking to dig up dirt. The servant returns with several bottles of wine, showing each to Brynn and allowing her to make a selection. She settles on a Fereldan port and Josephine finds herself questioning her again. "Your visit, while welcome, is most unexpected. What brings you to Skyhold?"

"First, answer me this: are you and my dear Evelyn still involved?" She takes a drink of the wine and seems to savor it before turning her hazel eyes to her.

"The Inquisitor and I have never been involved." How she wishes she could tell her otherwise. Would she gloat? Would it hurt her?

"That is not what these walls say."

Josephine laughs softly. "And you will take the word of the bored and desperate during war time? I've no doubt a dozen similar rumors have already sprung of our involvement."

"Most rumors have a kernel of truth." A moment. "So you deny it? Well, that's a relief. Naturally, I've come to see my dear Evelyn. It's a pity you didn't get to enjoy her. She's delightful isn't she? Oh, not that you would know. I'll tell you something about her—"

"This is not an appropriate conversation, Lady Cousland. I must ask that you cease this talk."

"Oh, let me have my fun, girl," she waves her away and takes another eager drink. "Let me tell you something about noble girls, aching to have what they think they cannot. If you find them when they're ripe, they'll do anything for you. The way they take to instruction… Ah, if only our husbands were so malleable." Josephine frowns. "We speak of power and Inquisitions but do you know the power of having someone completely under your thrall? Magic is unnecessary. Threats. Use kindness. Attention. Affection. She did anything to please me. And she did. But her folly was never understanding that it was game. A diversion. She thought I would leave my husband. She  _wanted_  me to leave my husband. She was just a child. What could she give me?" Josephine has asked herself the same. But she is not like this woman. "Has she outgrown that yet?"

"I am not privy to the Inquisitor's personal dealings. I cannot give you answers."

"I believe you are giving me the run-around, Lady Montilyet."

"What reason would I have to give such a distinguished guest that?"

The door to the study groans open. Evelyn enters, wearing soft black leathers. Josephine and Brynn rise to their feet. Evelyn keeps her eyes on Brynn. Whether she seeks only to avoid Josephine or is enchanted by Brynn is unknown. Brynn curtsies deeply. "Inquisitor."

"Lady Cousland." She nods. "As lovely as ever, I see."

Brynn takes it as an invitation, going to her and taking her face in her hands. "It has been too long." She tsks. "What happened to your face?" She traces the scar. "It looks awful. And you don't look so well, either. But what a pleasure to see you. I was just catching up with your lovely Josephine." Evelyn's gaze wanders to her, looking at her, through her, maybe only trying to cast her as a shape. Their eyes meet and still Evelyn does not see her. "You must be happy to have such a beautiful ambassador."

"The Inquisition is fortunate to have her. Beauty has nothing to do with it. The Ambassador has an extensive list of accomplishments to her name. You won't find anyone with a more sterling reputation."

Josephine winces at the compliment as if she's been slapped.

"Evelyn speaks highly of you, Lady Montilyet." Brynn latches an arm through Evelyn's. "You are blessed to have her favor in times such as these. But come. There is much more of Skyhold to see and I have so many questions for you. Give me the rest of the tour. Surely there's somewhere quieter for old friends to catch up." They turn and Brynn's voice calls back to her. "The Inquisitor can take it over from here, Ambassador. Thank you for your time."

They walk out, arms linked, Evelyn's hands behind her back, fingers twitching.

* * *

They wander Skyhold making small talk until the sun begins to set and Brynn remarks that she's famished and won't Evelyn please join her for dinner. Evelyn leads her to the dining room designated for visiting dignitaries. Brynn seems disappointed but sits when Evelyn pulls back a chair for her. The servants light the candelabra on the table, taking their meal requests before leaving them.

"And finally we're alone," Brynn says knowingly.

Evelyn drinks her water, trying not to look at her in the candlelight. Her lips and throat are dry. After Brynn seduced her for the first time, she was consumed by thirst. She wanted always to be near her. She craved her contact. She felt lost and disoriented without her. Her touch would restore her, would bring light back into the world. It was rapturous to discover what her body was capable of feeling after sixteen years of merely existing. Brynn could have had Maxwell, but she took her. Finally, someone wanted her. Until she didn't. After that, it was always the same. Some part of her thought that would change. Maybe with Josephine it would change. But it didn't.

Brynn warned her of forming attachments to noble women, to non-noble women. She would disappoint her family. Those leeches would only want her coin and status. It would demean her, she said. Brynn takes her hand. "You look sad." Does she? "Don't try to hide it from me, Evelyn. I could always read you like a book." A beat. "You're so cold." Evelyn pulls her hand away. "I've been thinking of you every day since the soiree at your family estate. We had fun that night, didn't we? We've always had fun."

She's grown tired of only having 'fun'. Not that she has even that recently. "How's Anna?" Evelyn asks. Anna, Brynn's daughter, four years Evelyn's junior. They used to play together.

"She recently married." Brynn seems irritated that she was brought up. "You didn't ask about Lucien." Her son. "But that isn't a surprise." They talk about their family. Brynn grudgingly speaks of her husband and children, while giving her the updates that she has on Evelyn's family, Evelyn only realizing then that her family has not written to her since arriving in Skyhold, perhaps before then. Brynn touches on her 'dear' father and some stupid argument they've had regarding a tapestry. "You know how stubborn he is. But there's something about him, isn't there, that really gets under your skin? He does talk about you, if you must know. Quite a bit."

Evelyn goes colder. Why bring him up? And why bring him up like that? So familiar? Both women straighten as the wine and dinner course arrive. Blackened fish with a lemon zest, bright green asparagus dressed in hollandaise sauce. Evelyn isn't hungry. They eat in silence.

"I've been curious. Did you help that ambassador compose that letter to me?" Brynn has a drink of the wine. Evelyn looks at her. "She threatened to ruin not only my reputation but that of my children. Our estate. Their inheritance. If I ever so much as breathed your name. I thought it extraordinarily possessive." No. She hadn't known that. Perhaps she would have been appalled long ago. Now it seems the proper sort of measure. The Inquisition's reputation must be protected. It'd be foolish to let it be ruined over her stupidity. "Did you know about it? Did you help her move against me? If you must know, it hurt me very much."

She can't admit she'd been kept in the dark about it. It would make her look incompetent. When she thinks about it, she isn't surprised it happened. "It was a safety measure. It wasn't personal."

"Everything about us has always been personal." Brynn stands, folding her napkin and setting it on the table. She moves around her, settles her hands on Evelyn's shoulders and sinks down, wrapping her arms around her, nestling her face in Evelyn's neck. "Take me to your chambers." She runs the tip of her tongue along her ear and laughs softly. "I feel you trembling. Is it for me?"

Evelyn removes her hands and gets to her feet. She is warm. Brynn has always made her feel like fire. Some piece of her is tempted. She is cold. She is angry. She could take her on the dining table. Roughly. Brynn's liked it that way before. So has she. But it'd be more of the same. There's little point in doing the same thing over and over again only to be disappointed when she has the same result. Despite the cold, she feels perspiration forming on her face and neck.

"Do not be unkind to me," Brynn says.

"I haven't been unkind to you. I don't owe you anything." She doesn't owe her her body. It took her some time to recognize that. It was once her only value to these women.

"You are being unkind." Her mouth twists. "You forget few know you better than I do. And there are many eager for my opinion of how I know you. I have known you your entire life. As has your father. I have discouraged him from speaking to the interested parties but I can change his mind."

The icy feeling crawls towards her stomach. "Are you threatening me?" Brynn deliberates. "I would caution you to reconsider." Her legs feel weak, her head airy and light.

There is laughter out in the hall. Evelyn recognizes it from long ago. Leliana and an agent—Maker, Evelyn can't remember his name right now—spill into the room, tangled together. They're dressed like the help. "Inquisitor!" The agent says. What's his name? "So sorry to interrupt! I'm—I'm so terribly embarrassed—"

"I told you to be quiet," Leliana admonishes him. His arm is wrapped familiarly around her waist. She looks at them, her smile and eyes so bright, it almost hurts to look at her. Evelyn feels the violent beating of her heart. What is this? "We are so sorry," Leliana purrs. "You know how difficult it is to get a moment of privacy around here."

"It won't happen again, Inquisitor and—erm—I'm sorry—" He strains to look better at Brynn.

"This is Lady Cousland," Evelyn says. There's a flash in Leliana's eyes. Evelyn somehow thinks she shouldn't have said her name. "I'll thank you not to interrupt again," she tells them. The agent and Leliana flush deeply. How can they do that? "Now get out of my sight." She doesn't want either of them to remember Brynn's face. The male agent takes Leliana's hand and tugs her out, both of them running and laughing.

"You handled them," Brynn says impressed.

"What do you want?" Evelyn asks. Brynn blinks, taken aback by her sharp tone. "You've come here. Why? For a fuck? I don't believe it."

"How dare—"

"No. Shut up. You will listen to me. Whatever your aim here, forget it." She grips the table, her head swimming again. "Here's my counter-offer and I suggest you take it. You will become one of my agents. You will go back to whomever sent you here and you will tell them that you are in my good graces. Tell them you've fucked me, if that will make it more believable, for someone as irrelevant as yourself to gain any kind of audience with me— that I am eating out of the palm of your hand, and then you will report to me everything they say, everything they plot, everyone involved."

"I don't know what you speak of," she meets her eyes but she's met women who could do that before and it's all meant nothing. "But you dishonor me with these wild notions. You are the Inquisitor now. Is it so inconceivable I would come to see you?"

"You never did before. It was only when I was there for you and convenient. When I came to visit Anna and your husband was drunk, passed out in the study. You wouldn't come all the way here for me. There are other young and stupid girls in Ostwick to charm into your bed." Her voice is shaking now and she doesn't know whether it's from the anger or the cold. "While you're doing my work for me, you will also put any fool ideas out of my father's head. Use what limited talents you have if you must."

Her eyes water. Is she afraid? Hurt? "You are cruel, Evelyn."

_I am trying to keep you alive._  "Yes. Keep that in mind when you're making your decision."

* * *

_Dearest Yvette,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I have been giving our last conversation at the Winter Palace a great deal of thought. I am so unhappy with how things were left between us. We are sisters. We should not fight. And I know you have always gotten along better with our brothers and our father than me—but it does not have to be that way. I want you to come to me for advice and for comfort. I know you may not think so but I have much I can provide._

_While it is true that we have chosen different paths—different lifestyles, I remain your older sister and it is I who will take over our family estate. Likely as soon as my business with the Inquisition is finished. No matter our differences, we must always strive to work our way past them. If not for family, whom else do we have?_

_Upon greater reflection, I do understand that you were trying to help me in the only way you knew how—but you must trust me to tend to my own affairs. I cannot express to you how frustrating it is that no matter what capabilities I have and show—others still see fit to try to make my decisions for me. That past relationship that we spoke of at the Winter Palace is no more. And if nothing else, Yvette, please understand that it pains me to think of it. Do not speak of it to me or anyone else. I beg of you._

_On to other matters. Lord Otranto and I are becoming more familiar with one another. He is handsome and quite Antivan—meaning that he is a bit of a bastard sometimes—but I suppose that is part of his charm. He is persistent if nothing else. And attentive in his own way. Please do not meddle further in my affairs. If Lord Otranto and I get married—it's because we are well matched—and I could not find a more fitting suitor. As you know, he not only marries me, but he marries into our family as well. He will be back in Antiva soon. Please behave yourself._

_As always give my love to Mother and Father. And thank them for me—for setting me up with such a fine match._

_Your loving sister,_

_Josephine_

Josephine seals the letter and laces her hands, sitting in the silence of her study for a long time. She feels so removed from everyone that she almost welcomes Otranto's company again. It seems silly now that she wasted so much time trying to 'right' things. Maybe she should have been capricious the entire time and she wouldn't have had a cold bed. There was nothing to feel shame about. She has done nothing wrong.

And yet the melancholy and the shame don't leave her, no matter her reasoning. Emotions are unfair. She was foolish to think that love could conquer all. Love helps but it isn't everything. It's a nice bonus. Perhaps in time it'll grow between herself and Otranto. She has known many marriages that were arranged and love flourished. This could be the same.

The truth is that this was always the path her life was on. She got her education. She got to travel Thedas as the Antivan ambassador and now she has her most challenging role yet in the Inquisition. The only interruption in the map she plotted for herself was Evelyn Trevelyan. She was foolish for allowing it to happen, for thinking that it might grow into something… into anything.

She needs wine.

She leaves her study and makes her way to the wine cellar past the kitchens. She had a small collection in her bedroom but she's gone through it in the past weeks. Perhaps the staff reserved her the Antivan bottle she requested—the staff has always been kind to her in that way. Loyal. And she appreciates it.

She's just past the second kitchen when she hears a clatter of pots. Her heartbeat spikes painfully. She means to call out but keeps quiet. Is someone here that shouldn't be? Other than herself. Though the House of Repose is now at the Inquisition's disposal there are nights when some piece of her recalls that fear and it leaves her dizzy. She hates to not be in control of things.

A few steps forward and she sees pots floating in the moonlight. She takes a tight hold of the counter, her heart throttling her until the pots are stacked loudly on the floating island. "Blimey pots, coming out of thin air. Stay there, you. Who's that?" Another flash, that blade glinting in the light and she's pressed to the counter, the knife at her throat. Josephine doesn't move, can't swallow. "Oh. It's you." Sera sets the knife to the side and pulls herself up to sit on the counter. "What are you doing about? Here to take the buttered things? Love those. Haven't seen them. You have the staff hold them for you. Smart. But be good, yeah? And share."

"What are you doing here?" Josephine stammers.

"What are  _you_  doing here? I get into things. You like to keep out. Solve it from a distance. Like arrows."

Josephine doesn't know what she's blathering about but she's shaken. Wild little beast. "If you must know there is—something was being held for me."

"Anything good?"

Josephine doesn't trust her smile. "A bottle. Of wine. I hope you haven't taken it." She takes a breath. "And I hope you know that we will be deducting all your little thefts from your coin purse. You cannot simply come in here and take what you want. Nothing is free." Not even love. "There are rules."

"There are rules for little people, right? Prices for the ones without the coin. Sounds right fair." A sigh. "Every time I want to like you, you do something to piss me off. Whatever. I'm taking the cakes. And the bread. The sweets. You horde it for when someone special comes along but no one does and it goes to waste. It's a real shame, that."

"And what if we just gave it all away," Josephine says, looking through the cabinet where the kitchen staff usually places her things, "and we had dignitaries arrive and nothing to offer them?"

"I don't know. You charm them? Offer enough, innit?" She slips off the counter and stacks another plate of food on top of the one she's been arranging. Josephine blames Leliana for this. She encouraged her before and now, like a little mouse, adorable as it may be, it is infesting the kitchen and running off with all their food. "You never answered, you know. At the tavern. You. Fisted? Tell me now before Beardie chews me out for talking to 'a lady' in such an 'indelicate manner'. Maker, he went on all night."

"That—that is none of your business." Where is the bloody wine? "You cannot—ask people that."

"That's not an answer. So I'm going to take it to mean, 'yes'. Bad Lady Josephine," she purrs and takes a small flask of mead.

"Sera!"

"Just a joke. Calm down, Ambassador Prissy Pants. We know you're too boring and virginal for that, yeah? Should try it though. Hurts a bit, sure. But the good kind."

Sera dawdles off and Josephine is torn between shouting at her and looking for the wine. She tries to do both at once. "Sera!" Josephine calls out after her. "I am not boring! Sera!"

But Sera doesn't answer, off and away, too bored to stick around for the conversation, it would seem.

* * *

She doesn't like to rely on second hand accounts. It'll be easier now that they've seen her face.

Leliana walks the halls of Skyhold, formulating a plan. It is as she feared. Brynn was sent by Arl Teagan or another malevolent force. She heard enough to know measures must be taken. Now she must choose the proper agent. It could be Rion or Argent. She's good. Quiet. Efficient. It won't be any trouble. Not compared to what this insignificant woman can rally. It always seems to come back to this: blood. She's spilled so much for the Chantry and the Inquisition that she's created rivers. It doesn't hurt and plague her the way it once did and that is more frightening still. But who else should shoulder that burden? Who else can be trusted with it? No, this is her task. It's what Justinia chose her for. The Inquisitor has heeded her advice, come to respect her actions and has done what has been asked of her so this—this she can do.

She arrives at the chantry and pushes the door open. It's dark save for the burning candles. Perhaps one day they'll have someplace bigger. Perhaps one day she'll walk the halls of the Grand Cathedral again. This is small and quiet, the wooden benches simple and unpolished but the space is enough. There are no songs, no Chant of Light. Only Andraste, standing before her, arms stretched out, fire in her hands. For so long she has battled with her faith. Revered Mother Dorothea saved her—and later, Leliana went to her side to be her Left Hand. It was the least she could do for her. She saved her when all hope had left her. She saw her in the shadows, bleeding and battered. Leliana had wanted everything to end but Dorothea offered her a way out of the darkness.

Leliana walks to the statue and looks up at it. Is Andraste worth this? The Maker worth this? She thinks of her prayer.  _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just, blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow, in their blood, the Maker's will is written_. Is that who she is? Righteous? Is that who she is? A peacekeeper? But peace through blood. Is that the only way? Her actions have always been to serve Him. Through Justinia and now, through the Herald of Andraste. She once believed she was chosen because she wanted to feel special. But in the end she chose to serve, whether He wanted her to or not. Maybe that's why she excels.

Leliana lights a candle for Tug. Poor Tug. She laments her youthful stupidity, how she made a game of lives and treason—and Tug and others more innocent were the ones to pay the price. The door to the chantry opens and she turns. The Herald of Andraste right before her very eyes. Evelyn lets the door come to a close before approaching. She lights a candle. Leliana wonders for whom. "You can't kill her," Evelyn says. "I forbid it."

"Sure I can. It will be easy." Evelyn frowns. Leliana stares at her profile. She's seen people this pale before, but only rarely. Her hair is so blonde it's nearly white. Eyes grey instead of blue. Her hair is longer than before, tucked behind her ear and sloping down past her neck. Her appearance is ethereal. Perhaps that is fitting for the Herald of Andraste, the woman who walked out of the spirit world. "That woman aims to ruin you in order to benefit herself. You have enough enemies in Thedas and I only have so many eyes. It would be negligent to allow her to escape."

"We can make her our agent."

"No."

"Leliana—"

" _No_." The Inquisitor glares. Her eyes shine. "I'm sorry. But you're not thinking clearly. This woman is special to you, yes? She was a lover. But lovers can be replaced."

"I will always have enemies. We can't kill all of them."

"If you kill the right ones, they'll think better of it and you won't have more enemies." Evelyn wrinkles her nose and Leliana thinks she's fighting tears. She sniffles. She's had a hard time, hasn't she? "You met her when you were young, didn't you? She made you feel special. Worldly? Oh, yes, I know how her kind works. She's shaped you. It's funny how that happens, isn't it? You learn without thinking you're learning. You change but into what—you don't know until it's too late. I—" Evelyn looks at her but Leliana gives a small shake of her head.  _I wonder what you were like._  There's no need for that question. "I know what it's like to feel like you're special—that you mean something to somebody. Only to find out you're not."  _Shh, my pretty thing. Shh. I have a way out._ She brings a hand to her belly absently.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"For whoever made you feel that way." She takes a seat, wrapping her arms around herself, shivering still. She's still off it, is she? "We can use her," Evelyn appeals. "I thought—we could ask her to report everything to us. Scare her if she thinks of getting out of line."

"You are being naïve, Inquisitor. You can't threaten people into loyalty." Not that sort of sycophant. They cannot afford another situation like that of the DuParaquettes. "We cannot watch her vigilantly enough to ensure it. If people lose their confidence in you, the Inquisition will fail. Our allies will leave us. Our forces. The Empress will break her arrangement with us and our collection of sordid secrets won't matter. It'll just be the word of the rabble. Nothing worth considering."

She clutches her arms around herself, huddled over, face pale and glazed with sweat. "I'm begging you. I'm begging you."

Leliana grinds her jaw. The lack of lyrium is making her emotional. Reckless. Or perhaps it's how things ended with Josephine. Maybe the Inquisitor thinks this woman Brynn, the vulture, is the only woman who could care for her. What power they have, those who performed the first seduction. "Is this woman worth losing the world to Corypheus?"

"She's a distant Cousland."

"She has the ear of Arl Eamon—potentially the future king of Ferelden."

"Ear or no, she's a noble from Ostwick. She's nothing."

Maker. What a number Josephine did on her. "I disagree." Evelyn looks at her. "It'll be quick. Painless. We'll make it look like an accident. It won't come back to us. It won't come back to you." Evelyn massages her forehead, drawing a hand over her mouth. "Perhaps you think me hard… ruthless." She wasn't that way before. Or maybe she was, when she played the Game, and she's only been denying the truth to herself since. "Maybe that's true. But I must do the difficult things that others cannot."

"I don't want another name on that list that you memorize because of me."

She should have never let her see that list. She'll drive herself crazy. Though she can't say she doesn't appreciate the thought. "You've been lied to, Inquisitor. As have I. I could tell you I won't handle this woman and do it anyway—behind your back. That would make us both feel better. I won't have to see that sadness on your face and you might see me in a better light. But I want you to be able to trust me. I won't always be able to tell you everything, but I do want you to be able to take me at my word. The less we hide from one another, the less our opponents can exploit. So there can be no lies between us. We've both had enough of that, haven't we?"

Her eyes water. Is it her affection for this woman that's making her sentimental or the absence of lyrium? Both? "I was cruel to her tonight." Her lower lip trembles. "I gave her a choice. But it was no choice at all."

"It's not your fault." This woman was given a generous offer. Josephine tried her tactic but some people are greedy. Some people want more and will exploit who they can to better themselves. Ah. The nobles and the politics and the games all became so tiring after a time. Not that the Chantry is absent of the same. But the work for the Maker. That's different, isn't it? It has to be. "This woman is special to you. Why? You're the Inquisitor. You can have anyone." Evelyn's eyes darken. Well. Perhaps not anyone. "What about Lady Cousland drew you to her?"

She hesitates. Leliana thinks she's embarrassed. She swallows and when she speaks her voice is uneven. "The first time I saw her—really saw her—I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Everyone looked at her—but she looked at me. She cast a spell." Leliana bites her tongue gingerly. Yes. She knows the feeling. "She'd been a friend of my mother's. I can't explain it. She made me feel less lonely. And when nobody wants you—" her throat locks up. She stares down at her boots, arms still wound tightly around herself. "I know it's pathetic." Leliana brushes a gloved hand over her temple. Evelyn closes her eyes at the contact, still shivering. "She said people are trying to get to my father. What she can say—it's nothing compared to what he could." She looks at her. "Will you kill him, too? Nobody will speak well of me, Leliana. I wasn't a good person."

"You are now." Leliana's hand shifts, cupping her face for an instant before releasing her. "And you must be protected." Justinia chose to value this life. She must safeguard it, no matter the cost.

* * *

"She's late," Josephine says.

Leliana doesn't look up from the marks on the war table map. "She'll be here." In fact, she saw the Inquisitor not long ago, at the gates with Brynn Cousland who was getting into her carriage. Did Brynn agree to The Herald's conditions? Leliana doesn't have those details yet but expects she will in time. She saw the Herald take Brynn's face in her hands, smile and tell her something before embracing her tightly and watching her go.

Afterward, she stood with her hands at her waist, then on her knees before moving towards the throne room. But that was nearly an hour ago. So yes. She's late. Cullen rubs at his beard. He's managed the lyrium hunger but he's disciplined and the Inquisitor hasn't always been. Cassandra crosses her arms and uncrosses them. Josephine takes notes, turning her attention to the door every few minutes and more irritated each time that the Herald does not appear.

Finally the door opens. Evelyn enters, dressed differently than before she parted ways with Brynn. Her hair is wet, her skin smells of soap. So she's taken a bath. Her eyes have a hint of red in them. Leliana catches her eye and offers a small nod. Josephine catches it.

"You're late, Inquisitor," Josephine tells her.

Evelyn looks at her but turns her attention to the group at large. "What's this about?" she asks. "I get a note slipped under my door this morning to be here? What's so pressing?" Leliana keeps her hands on the table, tracking the trail Brynn is on, estimating the day and time she will be intercepted on her return.

The group looks around anxiously. Leliana guards her silence. She never agreed with this meeting. Cassandra steps forward. "Why has everyone gone silent? If no one will speak, I will. We are here because we are concerned with your lyrium… problem." Evelyn's nose flares. Leliana doesn't recall seeing such fire in her eyes. This is not the glassiness of before. "We are worried. And you are our Inquisitor. Your health affects all of us."

Evelyn walks the table. "I'm sorry, is there a problem?" She looks at Cullen. "Was this you?"

He squares his shoulders. "Yes."

"And you thought to come to everyone here and tell them about our conversation?"

"No. Not initially. I told Cassandra. She's… She's the one who monitors me," he says more quietly. His cheeks redden. He's ashamed and he shouldn't be. The Chantry, the Maker, is this what it demands? Templars possessed by lyrium? "I… wanted guidance."

"What we spoke about was private."

"No," Josephine says, "as the Herald of Andraste, Your Worship, you belong to the Inquisition. Your… issue with lyrium could negatively affect not only the Inquisition, but your very life. This is a topic suitable for the war room. We are your advisors not only in name. We give you insight that you yourself may lack."

"Thank you, Ambassador, I'm keen to hear your opinion on lyrium dependency. Remind me, if you will, the last time you ingested it."

She's defensive. Of course she is. Anyone would be in this situation. Her trusted advisors have rounded her up to tell her, once more, that she's lacking. Leliana looks up at her. "Not all of us have experience, it's true. You were not asked here so we could attack you. Think of it as a conversation. What we need is a course of action. Once that's been established, we'll know what path to follow."

"And what are my paths?" Evelyn asks. Her voice gets progressively harder. She feels cornered. Perhaps betrayed. "What happens here? You tell me what I'm doing wrong and you fix it? How?" Her voice is rising. "How are you going to fix it?"

Maker. She warned her of keeping her composure. The Brynn situation no doubt threw a kink in the plans. She's on edge already. This isn't helping matters. If only they could reconvene to another time but it's too late. "We'll work on it together, Inquisitor."

"You're all against me."

"That is not true," Cassandra says. "You are here because we care about you."

"No, I am here because I'm your property. When was the last we had a bloody conversation, Cassandra?" Evelyn asks. Cassandra looks crestfallen, guilty. It's true the Inquisitor has hidden herself away. She's said as much, hasn't she? But things have been rocky between her and Cassandra for some time now. Leliana wonders if their friendship will ever be fully mended. "And what of the other hundreds of templars with us? Are we not concerned for them? What of Cullen? If we want to talk about lyrium dependency—."

"Please," Josephine says. "Calm yourself, Your Worship."

"Do not tell me to calm myself!" Her voice echoes in the room, followed by a heavy silence. She places her hands on the table but she quickly pulls them away and behind her back. "Fine. Let us all have a conversation. Clearly you brought me here with  _some_  plan. Let's hear it." They exchange uncomfortable glances as Evelyn glares at them. "You brought me here," she reiterates, "so  _advise_  me or quit wasting my time and let me go."

"Lyrium dependency affects everyone differently," Cullen begins, "though the symptoms of withdrawal are well documented. We have… noticed some behavioral changes."

"Our concern is that it's not for the better," Cassandra comes closer. "The Chantry has utilized lyrium to bolster the skills of templars. You have had difficulty during this Inquisition at the hands of—"

"Don't say another word," Evelyn looks at her.

"Venatori. It is natural that you turned to it given your background," she persists. "But you are now well-acquainted with the side effects of not having it. The cold. The shaking hands. The hunger." Evelyn glares at the table, her jaw quivering before she gets it steady. "We have been in Skyhold and you have been safe. But we will not always be able to stay here."

"You are the Inquisitor," Cullen says. "And not all the rifts in Thedas have been closed. That responsibility falls to you."

"Thank you for bringing me here to discuss the effects of lyrium withdrawal and to tell me that in fact, I am the Inquisitor." He opens his mouth to speak and she slams her hand on the table. "Get to the point."

"Ah, that proves more difficult," Josephine lifts her quill for the first time since the meeting began. She is a voracious minute keeper. "The fact remains that we are not all in agreement on how to proceed. There are few templars who choose to give lyrium up. Few who have have been successful."

"There's Samson," Leliana comments but he didn't try to give it up so much as his supply was taken from him. And now he drowns in red lyrium, like Corypheus' other templars.

"I'm not sure what's happening here," Evelyn looks around at them. "Did you bring me here to tell me to  _not_  take lyrium or to order me to take it?"

"As I said," Josephine's smile is as shaky as her voice. "We are not in agreement."

"Then let's go around and get everyone's opinion," Evelyn smiles. There are beads of sweat on her brow again. "Let's start with you, Ambassador. Let me guess. You suggest I take it…because… I don't know. I'll sweat or look tired in front of a noble. Tell me I'm wrong."

Josephine lifts her head, her mouth scrunching tightly before she forces that pleasant smile again. "It is not unreasonable to suggest that the Inquisitor ought to look their best at all times. Forgive me for saying so, Herald, but you do not look well. You are pale and shaky. You are foul tempered—"

"Only around you."

Josephine halts, swallows and continues. "You do not make a good impression in this state. If you look ill, you will be perceived as weak. Our leader will look fallible and that is the  _last_  thing we need, Your Worship. Any hint of weakness and our enemies will descend on us and you will hardly be in the position to prove them wrong."

Evelyn glowers at her for a long time. Whatever she is going to say she doesn't. Perhaps she realizes she has little argument. She looks to Cullen. "And what of you, Commander?"

Cullen sighs. "It's not my decision to make. I hope you understand that we are not giving you any directive—" Cassandra and Josephine look at him sharply. "In fact—" He sighs. "I cannot tell you what to do, Inquisitor. Not when I have chosen this."

"You must vote," Josephine tells him. "That is what we decided and I've already given my opinion."

"I meant what I said in Halamshiral," Cullen crosses his arms. "It's best to quit now while you can. There may be a temporary madness—but it is certain and unavoidable if you continue drinking lyrium."

"However, that takes years," Leliana says, her fingers tracing over the map. She estimates that Brynn will be intercepted in four days times.

Evelyn looks at her. "What's your vote, Leliana?"

"Continue taking it. We are close to the end. We can't afford to jeopardize anything now. It will be temporary." She lowers her voice so only Evelyn can hear. "I know everything hurts now. You don't need to suffer to do good. It does not mean you aren't capable. It just means this isn't the best time."

"You can stop taking it when the Inquisition is finished," Josephine says. "We are not ordering you to take it for your remaining lifespan."

"Which will be short," Cassandra says, "if you cease your consumption. I have seen you, Inquisitor, wandering these halls like a ghost. You get winded taking stairs. That is not natural. Not for you. If we go out in the field you will be a danger to yourself and to the others with us."

"It will get easier," Evelyn says through gritted teeth. "I just need time."

"I'm not sure that it's worth it. As Josephine said—for the time being—it might be best to take it. To keep you focused."

"Are you telling Cullen to take it?" Evelyn asks.

"We are not speaking of the Commander now," Cassandra warns.

Cullen shakes his head. "If she delays not taking it, she'll find any excuse to push abstaining back indefinitely," he grouses. "It is not our decision to make."

"Regardless, this is a democratic process and It appears a decision  _has_  been made," Josephine says making a note in her stack of papers. Evelyn's shoulders wilt. "Three to one." She jots down the names along with their vote.

"We are not done yet," Leliana says. "This was meant to be a conversation, no? Inquisitor: What do you wish to do?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters." A beat. "Our conversation in the chantry? That was different." Josephine looks at them. "This is something else. What would you like to do?"

"Even if she wanted to  _not_  take lyrium," Josephine says, "the vote would remain three to two. But, I suppose there is no harm, for posterity. Inquisitor: what is your vote?"

Leliana watches Evelyn, the way her chest falls and rises, the slump of her shoulders, fingers trembling on the table. A moot point, asking her what she wishes when the decision has already been made. A cruel display of their power over her.

"Wait." Leliana says. "I'm changing my vote."

They look at her as if she's gone mad. Cassandra's voice is clipped. "You cannot do that."

"Why not?" Leliana looks at the group. "This was meant to be a conversation, not a directive. At the end of the day, the decision is her own. What she wishes to do, lyrium, or no lyrium, only she can make that decision. Whatever she decides, she has to want it or she'll fail. I stand with Cullen."

"You stand with  _Cullen_?" Josephine asks, practically sneering.

"The vote is split now, two to two. Write it down," Leliana tells her. Josephine's smile twitches and she changes it. "Well, then Inquisitor. The decision is in your hands. Whatever you choose. We will support you. All of us. No matter our disagreements, we are all aligned with you."

Evelyn pulls herself up straight, her back going as taut as the string on a bow. "I want to stop."

Josephine and Cassandra exchange glances before turning their heated gazes on Leliana. She looks back at them unfeelingly. Cassandra steps closer to Evelyn. "I want you to think about this. Really think about this. I know Hawke has teased you—"

"I don't care about Hawke."

"But do not do this to prove a point. You have to think of Thedas. You have to think of yourself."

"I want to do this."

Cassandra scowls. Josephine writes too furiously. She's going to get ink on her hand. "Then it is decided," Josephine says tersely. "The Inquisitor will cease her lyrium intake." Maker preserve us, her tone seems to say.

They begin to filter out of the room. Josephine marches away without looking at any of them. Cullen lingers to tell Evelyn to reach out to him for support. Cassandra stops. "Forgive me, Inquisitor, but I do not agree with this." She glares at Leliana. "And you. You should know better. You are jeopardizing her and for what?"

"It was my decision," Evelyn says. "Wasn't it meant to be a choice?"

Cassandra curls her lip and exits, slamming the door behind her. Lovely. They'll no doubt argue about it later. Leliana takes a breath. "That went well."

"Can something like that go well?" Evelyn leans against the table and crosses her arms. She blinks. "You mentioned a war room meeting days ago. And to keep my composure." A beat. "You knew this would happen and you warned me." Yes. Against her better judgment. But she's never been fond of gathering a group to attack an individual. And yet, was she not one of the major players tasked with forming the Inquisition? "Why did you warn me?"

"This is a delicate matter, Inquisitor. And you've had… a difficult time these past … well. Since the Inquisition started, yes? You've given us so much." The words surprise Evelyn. Perhaps that is their failure as advisors that such a thing should surprise her. "I thought, what's a little cryptic warning? It was nothing."

Evelyn moves around the table, looking at the maps and figures, plans of attack. "You changed your vote."

"I was only trying to make things fair."

"You never do that."

Leliana laughs. "If you're trying to thank me, you're going about it the wrong way." And still Evelyn looks at her uncertainly. "I asked you to trust me when we spoke of Lady Cousland. But trust goes both ways. Justinia always said that. Trust is a little like faith, isn't it? So, I'm putting my faith in you. If you want to do this, I believe you can."

"What if I fail? What if I was given the simpler choice, the responsible choice and I've turned it away?"

"Then you'll keep trying. Andraste was tested often. She did not make her decisions based on what was safe and easy." Evelyn winces. She does hate that comparison. "Don't think me entirely selfless, Inquisitor. I do not like how lyrium affects templars. It takes good men and women and guides them to move against mages mercilessly. That's what started this whole mess. Abuses against mages went unchecked until they finally rebelled.

I've read the reports for Adamant on your encounters with Venatori mages. Your actions were excessive. Taking their hands? Beating them to death when they'd surrendered. Was it fear or lyrium that drove you to such madness? I'm not sure. But what marked your failure at the Ostwick Circle before, I believe was your greatest success. You were compassionate and not afraid. The lyrium strips you of your humanity and I believe, in time, of those things that could be beneficial. Pure joy, pleasure, even hurt, need to be felt without filter. Otherwise you're just a Tranquil by another name."

"I'm not sure the Chantry would approve of such talk."

"The Chantry has never been kind to those who would say the Maker loves all equally. To anyone who questions their traditions." It is one of the reasons she and Cassandra get into so many disagreements. "We don't know yet how long this Inquisition will go on. It could be years. The sooner you're clear-headed and more yourself, the better. That way you can rely just on you and not on a little bottle." Evelyn is apprehensive. "Whenever a new Divine is appointed, she'll have complete control over how mages are treated. It'd be nice if the Circles could be eliminated entirely but I doubt we will be so lucky. I'm hoping you can be an example of what a templar should be. Who better than the Inquisitor, no?"

"No one's ever thought I should be an example for anything."

"We'll just have to show them up then, won't we?"


	24. Temptation

Leliana can't remember the last time Cassandra and Josephine were so angry at her. As usual, it involves the Inquisitor. Josephine has never liked the dark things she must orchestrate with her assassins. Cassandra has gone so far as to call her actions heretical. But she is not a heretic. She only dares to go further than her colleagues for the needs of the Inquisition.

She understands their concerns but she cannot support them. Now, she must pray she has made the right decision. Faith and prayer are a little like abandoning all hope. Seeing no net and hoping to be caught regardless. The Herald and a party will be leaving for the Storm Coast this morning. Josephine is relieved. No doubt the Inquisitor's presence hurts her but better still—no longer will the visiting dignitaries be met with excuses as to why the Inquisitor can't attend to them.  _You have no idea how difficult you have made things for me,_  Josephine spat at her.

Things are difficult for everyone.

Cassandra has said little and Leliana hasn't had the heart to tease her about Hawke. Clearly this matter with the Inquisitor upsets her. Despite the intended role of the Seekers, they have turned a blind eye to injustice. She knows how Cassandra blames herself for everything that went wrong in Kirkwall. How little anyone thinks to consider that it was the stifling oppression, the insistence on merciless tradition and dogma that led to the rebellions and fall of Kirkwall. Justinia was meant to take them to a new, enlightened era, even if the road there was paved with atrocities, all in the name of the Maker and some brighter future.

A raven squawks its arrival and glides down, claws wrapping firmly around her outstretched arm. There's a note pinned to the raven's foot and Leliana coos at the bird, getting a few chirps before the creature takes flight to its cage. She unrolls the note. A series of symbols, nonsense to anyone that might intercept it, but a language of its own to her.  _It's done._

Hm. Once more Leliana feels the sharpness of the dagger going into her. Everything went hot, especially the flesh circling the blade.  _Shh. Shh._  She blinks. She must tell the Inquisitor. She's taking the steps down when Cassandra intercepts her at the top of the staircase. "Cassandra." Leliana smiles. "Still mad at me?"

"Yes." Oh. That's a shame, but not surprising. "You know the Herald is leaving for the Storm Coast soon." Yes. The Red Templars are sweeping over the coast like a toxin. Darkspawn have been sighted, along with Venatori. Access to the Waking Sea is at stake. Leliana nods and begins the steps down. Cassandra follows after her. "I have concerns."

"I know what your concerns are."

"And still you are against me."

"I'm not against you and I'm not against Josephine. You're being short sighted. This is best. In time you will know."

"In time? What if she does not make it? You are casting her out into danger. On what grounds? Lyrium? That is the way it has always been with the Chantry. You should know better."

"We all protect her in our own way." Josephine protects her reputation. Leliana guards her from the shadows. Cullen directs her military. And Cassandra sees to her personal safety.

"What if I cannot protect her?" Leliana stops and looks back at Cassandra. "Any time there has been a crisis I have not been able to aid her. I watched a mountain fall on top of her in Haven. The Venatori took her in Crestwood. That blasted Harlequin attacked her in Halamshiral. We have nearly lost her countless times. Somehow I… am not  _there_  when I should be. Without the lyrium she is… weaker. You cannot deny my words."

"You will be vigilant."

"She has not spoken to me since the war council meeting. What if she does not allow me to accompany her to the Storm Coast?" She is on the verge of tears. She's afraid she won't be able to protect her. Poor thing.

"She will. She has a soft spot for you, remember?" There was some part of Josephine that worried the Inquisitor would never fully give her attention with Cassandra near. Not that she blames either woman. Cassandra has a commanding presence, an impressive history and a fierce beauty. What charms and graces she lacks she makes up with goodness. If she weren't so intimidating Leliana is certain half of Skyhold would love her. "You should prepare to depart. Unless you want to stay here with me. And Hawke?"

A glare and Cassandra is gone. Leliana was sure that would do the trick and she wasn't mistaken. Now to find the Inquisitor and deliver the news. Some would advocate waiting but it's always better to know than to have the thought swirling in your mind. She heads to the Inquisitor's quarters, taking the steps up. The Inquisitor stands at the desk, staring down at the lyrium philter. Has she taken it? Does she want to?

Leliana clears her throat gently. The Inquisitor straightens, knocking the philter off the desk, lunging to catch it and missing. It clinks to the floor, the glass shattering and lyrium spilling. A long silence follows. Birds chirp on the balcony. The air is cold here.

"I wasn't using it," Evelyn tells her. "You startled me."

She kneels, gathering the thick broken glass and settling it into the lyrium box. Her fingers tremble badly. She cuts one finger and then another. Leliana stoops in front of her. "Stop." Evelyn persists. "Inquisitor." Evelyn pulls her hands back. Leliana collects the glass remnants while Evelyn brings her fingers to her lips, sucking the blood away. Lyrium always smells the same. Like bottled lightning. Evelyn moves away from it until Leliana has collected everything. She sets the remnants on the desk. She'll take them with her when she goes. Evelyn has returned to the cabriole, sitting and beginning to equip greaves. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing." There's a streak of blood along the corner of her lower lip. Her eyes shift to the pool of lyrium, to the philter on the desk and back to her greaves. "Are you regretting your decision?"

"No. Are you?"

Evelyn looks up at her. She tugs at one belt, taking multiple times to get the latch buckled into place. "It's harder than I thought it would be." She starts on another belt. "I've been thinking of those letters I've found scattered throughout Thedas. Rebel templars losing their mind without lyrium. I can't let that be me."

"It won't be."

"How do you know?"

"We have faith. The Maker is with us. He'll protect you."

"Wasn't the Maker with those templars?"

"No." Evelyn holds her gaze a moment longer before her attention goes to the other greave. Her eyes are dark. She hasn't been sleeping. What does she do with her time? Study scripture? Try to control the trembling of her hands? "I have news for you." She turns her hand, producing the rolled paper.

Evelyn looks at it warily. Leliana thinks she'll ask what it is. Instead, her head sinks. "Oh." She lumbers to her feet and takes the paper from her. She studies it. Her chest rises and falls, her face tight and still, save for a ripple traveling along her jaw. She goes to the desk. "Thank you." The last is read on her lips, deciphered by some skill Leliana needed long ago in the midst of the Game. Evelyn pulls out a stack of paperwork. The list of the dead. She writes the name down. Leliana thinks that if changing her vote was a mistake, she'll be adding the Inquisitor's name to her list. And she may as well abandon it then. The rest of the world will follow.

"She didn't suffer." It was clean. A hand to the mouth, a blade to the heart. Over in an instant.

The silence that comes lasts for minutes. "Sorry." The words are wispy. "I thought I'd prepared myself for this."

"One can never fully prepare for the death of a loved one. No matter how we try." No matter how unworthy they are. The Inquisitor looks at her but Leliana can't share that piece of herself. All this time later it remains fresh. "But we can take precautions. I'd like for Cassandra to join you at the Storm Coast. The Red Templars are a menace. They're well-trained and drunk on red lyrium. It makes them formidable. I believe having a seeker at your side will help negate some of their advantage."

"Cassandra has no confidence in me."

"Cassandra is afraid of losing you. She speaks with actions, so at times her words are a little clumsy. She means well. Sometimes even the best of intentions cause us heartache. You are no less for her concern. I would appreciate it if you took her with you." Evelyn looks to her. "You'll come back to us, yes? You must."

"Worried about me?"

Leliana smiles. "If we lose you, I'll never hear the end of it."

* * *

Cassandra's known where Hawke's room is for weeks now. She has not visited and would not visit now were it not for her imminent departure from Skyhold. These trips always take some time and Cassandra likes to bid her farewells to those that matter before she goes. She is not so foolish to think she is immortal. She knows too well the frailty of life.

Things with Hawke continue to be frustratingly ambiguous. Perhaps the longer they know one another, the more they familiarize themselves, the more apparent their rifts are. Hawke acted conservatively in Kirkwall, despite her actions but her ideals are… liberal. Perhaps no less radical than Anders'. Was that his influence? Or do all mages, in their heart of hearts, rebel against the Chantry's teachings? The Circles were meant to protect them and others. Hawke does not see it that way. Will she ever?

She opens the door when Cassandra knocks, puzzlement giving way to a languid smile, as if the passing seconds were necessary to unveil her. Cassandra hates how that smile can stir her heart to beat faster. This is a confusion. This is grey. She prefers clarity. She prefers men. So why must she fight to stop herself from pressing her to the wall and kissing her? "Greetings." She is more awkward than usual around her. "I hope this is not a bad time."

"Only if you've come to sing the praises of lyrium. In which case I am terribly busy." She walks back, taking a seat at the desk. Cassandra looks at her magic tomes, lists of spells, the very script seeming arcane in itself.

"Has the Inquisitor asked you on this outing?"

"I'm afraid she hasn't." There is something in her eyes, an imperceptible line cutting in her brow indicating her irritation. "You?"

"Leliana talked her into it somehow." Hawke gives a small nod. "I am worried about this. I am worried about all of it." Not only that, the group has become accustomed in their own way to the Inquisitor canceling out the enemies' spells. What if they've become sloppy as a result? What if they've become complacent?

"You'll take care of her."

"I haven't always."

"I won't be there to distract you this time."

She jokes but Cassandra isn't sure she's wrong. What if Hawke has been the distraction all along? No. It has been her own stubbornness. It could be that she placed too many expectations on the Inquisitor and was unreasonably disappointed when she failed to follow through on those expectations. Corypheus gave her that power. A darkspawn magister. A demon for all they know. How can she be the Herald? But the Maker works in mysterious ways. Perhaps this is not only a test for her but all of Thedas. "You  _are_  a distraction."

"Then you're lucky you'll soon have all this time away from me."

Perhaps. But Hawke is a strong fighter. She would feel more secure if she were coming along instead of the Tevinter mage. Cassandra isn't sure which of the two has a bigger ego. "What will you do?"

"Try to keep to myself and not get everyone around me killed." A grin. "That'd be a fine start."

"Have you spoken with Cullen?" The smile goes away and Cassandra sees her, as she imagines many of her enemies have seen her. Sharp and cold. "I have been thinking of our conversation. It might benefit you both to talk of what happened in Kirkwall."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't give a shit if Cullen 'benefits' from a conversation with me. How does he benefit? If I forgive him? I don't. I won't." She turns back to her books. "Will he apologize to the other mages in the Kirkwall Circle? I don't stand for all of us. Even if I chose to absolve him of his behavior, it changes nothing."

"He is a good man." Hawke's fingertips tighten around the edges of the page. "And you are a good woman." Hawke faces her, gaze shimmering and untouchable. Cassandra touches the back of Hawke's chair. Hawke looks up at her. Cassandra wonders why nothing can be simple. Had she given herself to this woman in Halamshiral, would she be filled with such doubt? Or would everything be black and white? The decision was placed in her hands but sometimes the weight is crushing. "I must go." Her hand falls away from the chair. Hawke takes it.

"Take care of our Inquisitor. And yourself."

"And you. Take care of yourself. Here. That is." Cassandra waits for Hawke to make a joke, to flirt, to attempt to kiss her but she doesn't. She only smiles and releases her hand, returning her attention to the tomes before her. Why is she disappointed? Perhaps Hawke's fascination was only temporary. Perhaps being faced with their differences was enough to quell her curiosity. "Hawke. Are things all right between us?" Hawke looks at her. "Have I disappointed you?"

"What's this about?" What  _is_  it about? Does she wish for Hawke to reassure her or kiss her or dismantle whatever feeling has been welling inside her? Hawke stands, a smile touching on her lips. "Oh. I see." She grazes past her and pushes the door closed.

* * *

"Your Worship."

It has been raining for the past few days, heavy drops that flatten grass and splatter mud. Her dresses are in desperate need of repair and replacement. She longs for the dress shops in Antiva and Orlais. Curse Skyhold. No matter how how beautiful and secure, it lacks the advantages of city life and handy tailors on hand for these particularly aggravating circumstances.

Evelyn is securing the saddle on the horse. She gives Josephine a quick look and continues to attach the saddlebags. Josephine doesn't know what's in them. Perhaps food or gear for their overnights. Potions. Lyrium? "Ambassador." She doesn't halt her movements. "If you're here about the dignitaries you'll have to see to them yourself."

"When  _will_  you attend to them?"

"When I have time."

"You've been in Skyhold for days. Locked in your room. Or the library. Or the rookery." Calm. She must remain calm. "You have had ample time."

"And now I'm leaving Skyhold."

"When you made your decision at that war meeting, you knew what was at stake. You have responsibilities. I am the ambassador, but I cannot stall our guests forever. They are here to see  _you_. You  _must_  attend to them." She's never spoken to her this way before, even when things were the rockiest between them. Maybe this is what happens when their roles are as strictly defined as they always pretended. Evelyn grabs the reins of the horse, holding on to them a long time, seemingly contemplating before pulling herself up. Josephine frowns up at her. "This is not a matter to be taken lightly."

Evelyn looks at her, eyes foggy. Does she recognize her? How long has she been drinking lyrium? When did she do it? Never in front of her. Not ever. Was it out in the field? Was it in the cover of darkness? In the morning? Who knew? Everyone but she? Josephine wonders if she rejected her plea for abstinence only because it was hidden from her to begin with. Why was she not open with her? Did she distrust her? Was it not worth mentioning? "Stroke their ego. Or whatever else it takes to keep them happy. I'll see them when I see them, Ambassador."

"You are angry at me. That I understand. But I am trying to do what is best for the Inquisition. That is my exclusive role as ambassador, is it not, Your Worship?" Evelyn doesn't look at her. Her eyes seem to flit, everywhere, distracted. "You did not tell me about this. How could you not have told me about this?" she hisses. Was she inattentive? Is she a fool?

"You called me a coward. You wanted me to be brave. Everyone did. I wanted to be brave for you." She's embarrassed, unable to look at her before she flicks the horse's reins gently and it plods away.

Josephine watches after her. The Inquisitor steers the horse one way, stopping, looking around her as if having lost her path. She wipes her face, pushes a hand back through her hair before moving right and out the castle gates. Josephine grits her teeth. Is she to be blamed for all of this? It makes her feel ill. No, that is unfair. She wanted an Inquisitor who would be diligent and do her work. What she found was a cowardly woman willing to run away from her responsibilities in the night. If anything,  _she_  shaped the Herald and made her into a woman who would do what must be done.  _She_  made her into the Inquisitor. Yet no one thanks her.

She prepares to head inside, foul-tempered. Only Blackwall's presence deters her. She has seen him infrequently since she dismissed him in Crestwood but she has missed his thoughtful letters and his little gestures, gathering flowers from the mountain in the early morning hours and attempting to deliver them in secret. She has thought of him more recently. Evelyn never did such things for her.  _No, she did nothing except spare your life a handful of times._  She is the Inquisitor. As long as she remains so, she'll have done enough, no matter what Josephine feels she deserves. The thought is discouraging, enough to render any of her own offerings insufficient.

Blackwall picks up a log and sets it on the tree stump. With a mighty swing he brings down the axe on the log and splits it neatly in half. What technique he has to be able to do so so gracefully. Josephine knows his fascination with his order, the Grey Wardens and hopes they might work collaboratively in the future. Whether they choose to come to the Inquisition is irrelevant. Having their loyalty could mean controlling a powerful military and potentially subverting a future Blight. Josephine knows Cassandra and Leliana agreed with the banishment of the Grey Wardens from their land. She was not in agreement. The Wardens have always served Thedas. It seems foolish to send away the only ones who can stop a Blight when they are potentially battling an archdemon and darkspawn. She did not tell Evelyn her opinion at the time. "Ser Blackwall," she raises a hand in greeting.

He smiles but she can only tell because of the shift in his beard. "Lady Josephine. Here to take more of my hard earned coin?" He whistles. "I've had less taken in the most dangerous alleys of Denerim."

"Then you have found my secret: in the game of Wicked Grace I am merciless." She took their coin and threw it into the fountain. She vaguely remembers that. Perhaps some of their people found it the following morning and were grateful for their fortune. "It has been some time since we've spoken."

"That it has, my lady." He tosses the split wood into a pile and grabs another log, splitting it with deadly precision.

"I am to blame." She hasn't forgotten her words to him.  _You were… a diversion. Whatever I feel for you does not matter. I have responsibilities, not only to the Inquisition but to my family. Our stations are too far removed. We cannot be together. We will never be able to consummate our passions, our… feelings. I suspect that you were already aware of this but it occurs to me that I should say it plainly before we become further entrenched._  Yes, she cut him down ruthlessly, feeling guilty at the time but the conversation soon forgotten. "You treated me with kindness and I…"

"You were right to tell me. Unpleasant as it was to hear it." He thwacks the axe down on the stump and crosses his arms gingerly. He digs the toe of his boot into the ground, daring to glance at her again. "You are a captivating woman with remarkable talent. It was natural …and arrogant, that I deluded myself into thinking…" He looks around them. "Into thinking what I thought." He chuckles. Was he so foolish? She wrote him letters. They kissed. It was a diversion in this lonely Inquisition. A diversion until Evelyn came along and made her feel… But she was involved with them both. At the same time in some periods. It depresses her to think of it. Evelyn disliked it. Blackwall was unaware. It seems strange now to think of how she tortured herself about it. Evelyn has been unkind and she is engaged. "In any case, I'm sure you didn't come to hear me mope. Was there something on your mind?"

Has she anything on her mind? Skyhold is a large place and she managed to avoid him successfully until the night she and Evelyn parted ways. He was always eager to impress her and she liked that. He was perhaps overeager. Like a puppy. He thought her worthy and good, perhaps because he doesn't know her. His letters were strikingly well written for a man of such low station. Perhaps he felt something for her, because he does not know her, is unaware of her calculation. "No, there is nothing on my mind." Nothing she can say to him. "I just saw you and remembered the kindness you extended me—even when I was not worthy of it."

"It was the least a woman such as yourself deserves. If it was enough to bear mention or memory—then I'm happy for it."

She smiles. The honey that pours out of this man's mouth is remarkable. She sees a visiting dignitary in the distance. A noble grump from Ferelden who would have words with the Inquisitor. And now said Inquisitor has left when it is more important than ever to appease the people of that kingdom. It is up to her to resolve it. "Let us not go so long again without speaking, Ser Blackwall." A beat. "That is—if you are not opposed."

He considers her dubiously. "I can't say that I am."

"Then perhaps we can speak at another time."

"As you say, milady." He nods and returns to his wood. Josephine leaves him and walks some distance before turning back. He looks back at her and she breathes easier, reassured.

* * *

Leliana sits on the window perch, surveying Skyhold. She twirls a short knife between her fingers. The Inquisitor and her party have just left. Maker preserve them. She has eyes and ears everywhere, she has hands with daggers but this is a different task. She cannot send her agents to battle wardens and templars, darkspawn. So the Inquisitor must make do. The others must protect her. She has not been out in the field for years. Her fighting is done behind the scenes. And yet, for the first in a long time, she experiences the discomfort of helplessness.

Below, Josephine is talking with Blackwall. Leliana can no longer be sure of what her dear old friend is doing. Testing the waters, she wagers. Playing with fire. Well, good for her. Yet she remains relatively untested. What will she do when faced with an irrevocable decision? The kind that will determine her future? Will she finally break away from everything that hinders her? Or will she surrender and walk the path of Brynn Cousland? Would that make her happier? There is comfort in the familiar, even if it's misery.

Leliana thinks of the blood on Evelyn's lips. It's the scar, she thinks, that draws attention to them.

A sound turns her head. Ah. Morrigan. The witch with the predatory walk. If nothing else, she is a vision. And here she is, back in her rags of old again, the red velvet dress of Halamshiral retired. The ravens are quiet, all shifting on their perches to look down at her. Morrigan smiles up at them before turning her attention to Leliana. "So this is where you spend your time. In the shadows with the birds. What's the name that scatter brained one has for you? Shadows of birds? I see that now. I'm told you've asked for me."

"I have."

"And you've had me fetched as if were a servant. I was told I'd be an advisor here and yet, these so-called war room meetings occur and  _I_  am not invited. It appears the Inquisition is happy to rest on its laurels while Corypheus makes plans to tear the world asunder."

Morrigan's usual goading. It won't work. She was good before, at getting under her skin. "The Inquisitor does not know you. When she deems you ready to appear at the meetings, she'll go to you."

"So you say but she has made no effort to seek me out. That wouldn't have anything to do with your word of mouth, would it, bard?"

Leliana smiles and slides down from the perch. "So now you want her favor?" That's the way with Morrigan. She never gets invested unless she can get something. To this day she can never figure out what she wanted from the Warden. It must have been something. The Warden and Morrigan argued that night but she never told Leliana the reason. Leliana knew something had shaken her. That night she made love to Leliana as if it would be their last. Morrigan stares at her, waiting. Leliana blinks. "I've had my agents investigating. Some time ago our Inquisitor was taken by the Venatori and their leader, Calpernia. Something happened." What the Inquisitor hasn't fully said. Perhaps she doesn't fully know. Perhaps that is the Maker's blessing. "Later they attacked Skyhold. We lost more than we should have." And Alistair. He was a good man. Wynne is gone as well. Varric. Justinia. The Maker is not kind. "Do you know anything of them?"

"Is there any particular reason you're asking  _me_? Or is it your habit to ask all apostates whether they know one another?"

"You know more than you pretend and you are fond of secrets."

"All this time later and you still distrust me."

"You walked away from us on the night before we fought the Archdemon," she says, her voice sharp. She stows the knife into a bracer sleeve and swallows. "How much should I trust you?"

"She was my friend." There's something in her face. Pain. "She was my only friend."

"You were not her friend."

Morrigan frowns, jaw tight. There's something more, something she nearly says but looks away. She takes a breath. "To answer your question, I know nothing of this Calpernia or her Venatori plans. However, Tevinter legends say that there was once a priestess of Dumat by that name. Perhaps the name is only symbolic."

"And she would use that name, to move the Tevinter faithful." Clever.

"Yes, much like the Inquisition would utilize a title such as 'the Herald of Andraste'."

Leliana frowns. Yes. They did that. It was necessary. Their cause is righteous. They will do anything to stop Corypheus. Anything. That is not wrong. "Are you comparing the Inquisition's methods to those of Corypheus?"

"Does the notion offend you? That thing is willing to do what is necessary. As you are." She searches Leliana's eyes. Leliana regards her impassively. "You've changed." She proclaims it, like a curse.

* * *

Every step feels as if it's taken through quicksand.

The Storm Coast is wet and muddy. Dilapidated ships litter the coastline, along with the bones of the crew left behind. As much as she fights it she can't help but think of Crestwood. The rain is a blanket that falls in stinging waves, seeping into every piece of her armor. Evelyn shivers. Everything seems to move in slow motion. Dorian, Cassandra and Sera wander ahead, each stopping for minutes at a time to wait for her to catch up. Every second passed trickles by like an hour. She keeps her eyes on Dorian, the satchel he carries. There's lyrium in there. She knows there is. Her mouth and lips are dry. She's thirsty. She wants to sleep. She wants to be warm. She wants to drink and be steady again.

"Hurry up, you," Sera calls back.

Evelyn nods. She tries to run but can only manage a brisk trot. Moving about was difficult at Skyhold. She thought the stairs to the rookery were bad. With the armor she is doubly fatigued. She can fall asleep at any moment. The mountains are treacherous, the sharp craggy rocks a risk. If she slips and falls into the water with her heavy armor and the dangerous waves, she's done for.

"Are you all right?" Cassandra asks when she reaches them.

"I'm fine." All she wants is to rest. She tries to keep pace with them but minutes later finds herself dragging again, cold sweat pouring down her body. They need to camp but there's too much light out. She can't ask. She can't expect them to slow down and waste valuable hours for her. She chose this. She keeps moving, praying the sun will lower soon.

Dorian hangs back, perching his foot on a small boulder up ahead, lifting his face to the grey of the sky and letting the dwindling rain wash over him. "Cousin! Have I ever told you that you take me to the most delightful places? Crestwood, then Halamshiral and now here. I'm not sure which place has more snakes." She can only smile tiredly at him as he pushes off the boulder and walks alongside her. "I've been trying to find a way to put this delicately for hours but there's no way around it. You look awful. I'm beginning to wonder if we're even related."

"If you wouldn't shout 'cousin' at our every meeting, you wouldn't have to worry about me embarrassing you." They look nothing alike.

"As if it's only the looks that would do it. You're so surly you make Cassandra look chipper. Tell me, is this only to do with Lady Montilyet? I admit, I haven't been searching for a bed partner for you as diligently as I should have, but I am determined to find you  _somebody._  The best way to get over somebody is to get under someone else, or so they say." A moment. He turns to her with excited innovation. "What about Sera?"

"Sera?"

"Why not Sera?" He chortles. "Maker, I can't even say that with a straight face, can I? Sure, she's batshit crazy but she's attractive enough. And spry. Do you like them spry? I'm sure that's handy."

Evelyn looks ahead to Sera and Cassandra. Sera flinches when Cassandra turns to snap at her. "Handy for what?"

"For sex, Cousin. What else?"

She can't say she's ever thought of Sera that way. Nor is she sure she's capable of taking anyone to bed at this point. The only thing she wants to fall into bed with is a pillow. Perhaps a warm blanket. "Sera and I have nothing in common."

"Who needs common for a little bit of fun?"

"I do, as it turns out." She hoped things with Josephine would work out. Opposites attract, and all that. But all she found was that after the initial curiosity, opposites make for heartache and arguments. Opposites have little to talk about, except for their disappointments. She looks at the satchel at his side again.

"I've noticed you've been staring at my ass all day. I guess we don't need trust between us to do that."

She winces, flushing before looking away. "What? I haven't."

"Not that I blame you. Chiseled as if out of stone, isn't it? My body is a temple." What the Void does that even mean? "If you haven't been staring at my ass—" His expression darkens and he lifts a hand. She follows his gaze. Templars head their way, silver and crimson, fusing bright in the dull of the Storm Coast. "Be ready," he tells her. Evelyn looks around and sees them coming from the other side. How did they get here? How did they get around them? Her head swims. She lifts her sword but it's heavier than she remembered. She's not capable. She's made a mistake.

The templars move toward them, a red wave, followed by something bigger, twice the size of her, the end of its arm as big as a boulder. Red lyrium juts out of it. Wait. She thinks she shouts at Dorian but she hasn't spoken. He's on the move and she looks after his satchel desperately. The lyrium. She needs it. She needs it.

Two red templars approach. Thunder rumbles overhead. The rain intensifies. She tightens her grip on the greatsword, her heart pounding so hard she fears she'll die. The templars eyes are red lights in the imminent dark. One growls and lunges forward with a swing. She blocks the blow, managing to raise her greatsword at the last possible instant to save her neck. The templar's longsword slides along her blade and she staggers back, her sword dropping too low. Her fingers are numb and she has no idea how fiercely she actually holds the weapon.

The other templar runs at her. How are they so fast? How are they so bloody fast? Much faster than their own templars. Is that what red lyrium can do? She can't lift her blade. She shifts, sidestepping his swipe but feeling the blade whip across her cheek. A bloom of red opens there, spilling hot on her face. A loud thunk sounds and the templar is sent hurtling back. Cassandra stands at her side, shield at the ready. "Inquisitor. Are you all right?"

She nods and tries to steady the tilting world. Behind her she can hear Sera and Dorian shouting. Flares of color in the night, templars screaming, the pungent smell of burning flesh. The soft crash of waves. Cassandra takes on the two templars. Evelyn stumbles, too thirsty, too tired. The wet sand is difficult to maneuver on a good day. This was a mistake. What has she done? She watches Cassandra in helpless wonder. She is a goddess. She blocks one templar's attacks with her shield, parrying the other with her sword hand. _Move._   _Move, move, move._  Evelyn picks up the greatsword and manages a light jog.

She focuses, commanding her muscles to respond to her. She lifts the sword and takes a swing, barely catching the templar between his chest piece and helmet. The blade buries into his neck. He doesn't cry out. He turns to look at her, walking with outstretched fingers until his head comes clean off. He walks another few steps, falling to his knees and bleeding out.

Evelyn gapes. There's a booming crash and she looks up. The behemoth that had wandered in the distance has closed the space between them. Cassandra has knocked the longsword from the templar she fights but has not taken notice of the red lyrium that has formed on the ground, coming out in spikes. It races to her like an arrow, pointed and sharp.

Evelyn sprints, breathing labored, gets to her and shoves, knocking Cassandra to the side. The unfortunate templar Cassandra had been battling is skewered like a pin cushion. Evelyn turns her attention to the behemoth. She has no blade. Maker, she has no blade. She steps back. Andraste. What is this thing? There's a person inside of there. He lifts his bulbous arm, large as any battering ram and strikes her.

There's a sound like crumpled paper. The breath goes out of her. She flies back. Cold air and rain pelt her. How far is she flung? She doesn't know. She crashes hard onto one of the battered ships, smashing through it to land on the shore again. Black floods her vision. For seconds she doesn't move. Can't. Is she paralyzed? She heard something snap. Blinks. Her fingers move. Not paralyzed. Something else broken. It doesn't matter. She crawls forward, fingers digging into wet sand. Wet sand. Her eyes burn. No. This will not be like Crestwood. Not again. She wheezes. A red templar lies dead some feet away. Dorian or Sera's work. There's a small vial of red lyrium at his side. She pulls herself. Sound is leaving the world. If she can get to it, she can get up. She can help. She can do… something.

Sand and water stick to her face, ocean water burning fire where the templar cut. There's no sensation or maybe it only seems that way because all she can recognize is pain. Move. _Move._  She can't. Her body isn't her own anymore. She fights to keep her eyes open. She sees glimpses of the world. Sera and Dorian's feet. Templars. Where's Cassandra? Her breath sounds as if it's been put through a grinder. She can't close her eyes. But they close. There's a crack of lightning. Saltwater on her tongue. The ocean waves wash over her.

* * *

They're in a cave, nestled in one of its dark corners.

Cassandra wipes her cheek and sniffles.

Sera sits with her by the fire, an arm around her waist, head resting against her shoulder. Cassandra wishes she would release her but can't bring herself to push the elf away. There is some comfort from her embrace. She must be feeling guilty. "You're being stupid," Sera tells her tenderly.

"I let it happen."

"Right. And how's that? You see that thing? Big as piss."

She doesn't ask how big 'piss' is. She knows. In fact, it took some time to take down the behemoth, and all that time Cassandra fought with the knowledge that the Inquisitor could be dead or bleeding out and she wouldn't get to her until it was too late. None left the battle without injury. Sera's arms are full of gashes. The woman could stand to wear some decent armor. It doesn't matter how fast she is. It only takes one perfect strike to take down an opponent. The Inquisitor has the opposite problem. All day she has been struggling, the additional weight no doubt hindered her.

After the beast fell, they found Evelyn, facedown in sand and water. Cassandra feared she'd drowned but she breathed. They lifted her and dragged her to the cave under the cover of night, Dorian's staff aglow with fire. They set her carefully on the cold stone floor while she and Sera quickly assembled the tent and started a fire.

Dorian's been with her for hours now. Are Inquisitors meant to be so fragile or is she just lucky? Perhaps she is only bad at her job. Sera rubs Cassandra's arm and stands, stretching her arms and legs. She wishes Hawke were here. She'd say something infuriating and she could feel something other than this worry like a knot in her stomach. The Inquisitor was in the range of that creature because she saved her. If she had been more vigilant. What has happened? Is she just  _old_? Are her reflexes gone? She thinks of Hawke and her kiss prior to leaving Skyhold. She let it happen. She wanted it to happen. Is it distracting her? Hawke wasn't here and it happened again. She wipes another tear hastily and yanks the flap to the tent open.

Dorian looks at her and gives her a weary smile. Cassandra looks at the Inquisitor. She's still out cold but her chest falls and rises softly. She isn't making that sound like before. Dorian exits beside her. He lifts a hand before she launches into questions. "She'll be all right. A few cracked ribs but they've been mended. What's the bloody point of armor if it can't stop that?"

The chest piece was reduced to crinkled metal from the behemoth's blow. "Without it she'd likely be dead." He nods and she sees now how tense he is. "Thank you for everything you've done." He arches his eyebrows, looking to make some comment but giving another little nod instead. She exhales. "Sera and I did a little scouting earlier. It appears there is a cave not too far from here. We believe the base of these red templars might be there."

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but we're not exactly at the top of our game right now."

She knows. "Whatever happens, where ever we go, we cannot allow her out of our sight. This should not have happened." She sighs tiredly.

"She hasn't seemed herself. Is something going on with her? Things have been in the shit with her and the ambassador for a while, haven't they? Is that all it is?"

Cassandra grits her teeth. Sera looks back at them, curious. "I do not know." It is not her business to tell. In any case, she does not agree with it and perhaps soon, especially after this incident, the Inquisitor will change her mind. "But I hope it is temporary."

There's a rustling in the tent and Cassandra pivots, ducking inside again. The Inquisitor is awake, eyes drifting along the tent, settling on her. She groans softly. "Where am I?"

Dorian forces his way back into the tent, followed by Sera. "We cannot all be in here," Cassandra complains but they ignore her.

"She speaks!" Dorian grins and takes her hand. "How are you feeling?"

"My body hurts."

"You were hit by a red templar creepy, bigger than a giant, and meaner," Sera explains. "Threw you clear across a ways. Won't say it's a miracle you're alive. But something like."

"Dorian healed you," Cassandra tells her. "We are in a cave, away from the elements. You have been out for several hours. We are safe, for the moment." Cassandra studies her. Grains of sand stick to her face, the gash on her face is swollen. Her nose and cheek are crusted with dry blood.

"I'm thirsty."

Cassandra fetches her water skin and Evelyn drinks it quickly, turning to her side and hacking when she starts to choke. Dorian holds a hand steady to her back, pulling her hair away from her face. He really does care about her, doesn't he? And he does a good job of showing it. Cassandra doesn't know how to resolve things between them. She has apologized and what good has come of it? Does she only feel as if the Inquisitor is a fraud? Is that what stands between them? Even if she is, she has been doing a good job. This instance not withstanding.

Evelyn turns on her side, pulling her limbs to herself. She's shivering again. "I'm sorry for delaying us," she says, speaking to Dorian's satchel that has been discarded to the side along with her armor. "We'll hit the red templars first thing in the morning."

"Maybe we should go back to Skyhold," Sera volunteers. "You don't look good, Herald. We could come back with Bull and Blackwall. More of us, right? Couldn't hurt."

"There's no time. We can't risk it," she says.

"Nor can we risk you," Cassandra says.

"It'll be fine," she says more sharply. "I'd like to be alone. Please."

Dorian and Sera exit. Cassandra remains, kneeling beside her, staring at her back. She sees the bruises beneath the pale shift. She flew so far Cassandra feared she'd broken. Evelyn's fingers play near the armor, curling along the cold metal, toying with the frays of Dorian's satchel. "I haven't been able to help you."

"I'm alive, Cassandra. What happened wasn't your fault."

"No. Not entirely. You asked why I would support Cullen's choice but not yours. This was my reasoning. I am terrified something will happen to you. Something  _did_  happen to you. I know you are only trying to do what you think is right but you are important. Not just to the Inquisition. You are important to me. You are a friend and I want to support your decisions. But I am afraid this will kill you. And I would not be able to bear that." Cassandra wishes Evelyn would look at her. She is left to stare at her back, lifting and falling faster than before.

"If I fall, I fall because I was not worthy. Because the Maker abandoned me."

Her throat is tight. She should take the lyrium. Could she force her? To save her? But what would she be if she attempted such methods? A monster. How much would Evelyn loathe her? Enough that she'd never let her near again. "You must not say such things. I should have been more vigilant."

"No. We protect each other. I'm meant to save Thedas. That won't mean anything if something happens to you. I have to be able to save somebody that matters. I have to."

"You have saved many."

"You're afraid because you think I'll fail. But I'll show you. I'll make you a believer."

Cassandra says her name but she doesn't turn. Cassandra leaves.

* * *

They return to Skyhold in a fortnight's time.

Josephine sees the party enter the gates from her bedroom window and remembers when she shook with anticipation for the Inquisitor's visit. If she came to her now, would Josephine allow it? She takes a deep breath, thinking of her touch, letting her mind wander, her imagination too live.

She must not think. It is imperative she not think of it. She bows her head, remembering the letter in her hand, Blackwall's, slipped beneath her door in the early morning hours. _Milady, I must confess my thoughts have turned to you. I remember your words in Crestwood. You would no longer have my letters. But I thought with our most recent conversation that perhaps you'd changed your mind. If you ever have need of me, know that I am at your service._

Josephine touches the letter, fingers tracing over his script before setting it on her desk and departing her quarters. She goes outside. The air is surprisingly cold after a brief respite of heat. No doubt the party is returning their horses to the stables. Is Blackwall there? Did he know about her involvement with Evelyn? Does he know about Adorno?

She hears their soldiers shout greetings to the returning group. Sera and Dorian speak of the tavern swill, debating who will pay for the first round, when they spot her. "Lady Prissy Pants!" Sera lifts an arm. "We're drinking. You buying?"

"It's the least you could do for stealing any opportunity we might have had at early retirement," Dorian says. "Not that that we don't face ample opportunity for that." He looks at Sera who stares back at him blankly. "Because we could die."

"Piss on that. I'm not dying. So's, what do you say?" She looks at Josephine. "Unless you're planning to take from the Skyhold kitchen again. Let me know when you go, yeah? Not fair for the pretty rich ones to have all the treats. Not without sharing." Josephine stares and gets a wink in return.

"I will…" Josephine blinks. "I have told you repeatedly to stay out of the kitchens." Sera cocks an eyebrow but Josephine hurries on before she is deterred all evening. "I would see to the Inquisitor. Where is she?"

Sera opens her mouth but Dorian steps forward. "What business have you with my cousin?"

Josephine looks at him, unsure if she's properly heard him. "Excuse me?"

"She's only just returned. Whatever business you have for her can be attended to in the morning. And if it's not business—then I suggest you give her space. You're betrothed. Surely you don't long for company."

"I am the ambassador of the Inquisition. How dare you speak to me this way?"

He chuckles. "How  _dare_  I?"

Sera looks anxiously between them. Josephine can hardly acknowledge her presence; she's hot from anger. Dorian brings his face close, full lips turned up in a challenging smirk. "She's at the stables," she hears Sera say. "You'll find her if you hurry."

Josephine goes, hearing the two of them get into an argument the second she walks away. So now a Tevinter Altus—practically a magister— is to insult her? Who is he to speak to her in such a way? What does he know about her? Or discipline? He was kicked out of nearly every Circle he was in. She steels herself and hurries to the stables. Torches burn. Evelyn's back is to Josephine, brushing her horse. She's engaged in some soft conversation with Blackwall. Seeing them together stops Josephine in her tracks.

Hay scatters and they turn to look at her. Blackwall stands straighter. Evelyn returns to brushing the horse. Josephine nods at Blackwall and approaches cautiously. Perhaps she is only here because she is used to greeting her upon her return. She is happy that she has returned. That she lives. "Inquisitor." Evelyn continues brushing the horse. "I am glad you have returned to us safely."

"Thank you," she says. Blackwall busies himself, beginning to move bundles of hay. Josephine's face warms, grateful he's moved away, not wanting him to overhear any of their conversation.

Josephine doesn't know what to say. Her heart aches. Despite her disappointment, despite how she sometimes loathes her, she wishes only for a kind word from her. Evelyn glances at her. There's a fresh scar on her face. Josephine reaches to touch it and Evelyn dodges her hand. "Don't." Josephine's throat tightens. "If there are dignitaries I can attend to them in the morning." Josephine lingers. "Was there anything more?"

"I just wanted to offer— if… you needed …" A confidante. What is she thinking? The Inquisitor doesn't trust her. Perhaps she never will. She's irritated. "You cannot shut me out forever. Lord Otranto is gone. You and I have a history. You cannot suddenly treat me as if I was nothing to you."

"You  _are_  nothing to me." She tosses the brush on a nearby table. It clatters, alarming one of the horses and echoing through the stable. She searches the saddlebags, grabbing a handful of items and throwing them into her satchel. Josephine only hears a soft clink. "I'm done here, Blackwall. She's all yours." Josephine doesn't know whether she's talking about her or the horse.

Blackwall returns, dumping the last stack of hay and leading the horse into its stall. He barely looks at her. Josephine stands there uselessly, noting the smell of the horses, the manure and hay. Why does the majority of Skyhold stink? She moves away dispiritedly, eager to forget the encounter. What she needs is a hot bath and a glass of wine. A lover to make her forget her troubles. She's out of the barn when she hears him.

"Are things all right with you and the Inquisitor?" Blackwall asks. She turns back. He holds the horse brush nervously in his hands. "Things seem tense between you."

Josephine forces a smile. "The Inquisitor and I have always been at odds. This is more of the same, I'm afraid."

"A little bird might have told me the two of you were involved." What bird, Josephine wonders? She imagined everyone knew but perhaps that was only her paranoia. Who would tell him? "It would explain a lot."

"It was long ago." She swallows. "And certainly nothing to write home about." The heat flushes her cheeks again. Perhaps it only looks as if she's flustered. Perhaps she looks becoming. That is her duty as ambassador. To manipulate the situation. To make something look like something else. She isn't sure which part of her influences the other. Her personal life or her title. He looks at her, more hopeful by the second. "I received your letter."

* * *

The party returned hours ago and Leliana has been sifting through Cassandra's reports. The Storm Coast almost ended very badly. She gave details of the red templars attack and the Inquisitor's brush with death.  _I once again question your judgment, Leliana. The freedom you afforded the Inquisitor nearly got her killed._   _She is slow and unfocused. I worry she is no longer up to the task. It appears there is something that haunts her but what I cannot say._   _She will not speak to me. She only tells me to believe. I wonder, will belief and faith be enough to sustain me should she perish? Perhaps you fault me. You would not be the only one._

Her following report had a markedly different tone.  _Today we stormed the red templar base. They had set up a hidden port that would give them quick access to the Waking Sea. I cannot imagine the red templars with access to the Ferelden coast. Prior to departing to their base, I instructed Dorian and Sera to remain close to the Inquisitor at all times. But it appears there was little need. She moved with momentum. Perhaps she only needed the twelve hours of sleep she got from the previous day into the early morning hours. Sera has not stopped talking of the arm and head the Inquisitor took from one of the archers in one fell swing. We were able to crush the opposition there and reclaim the docks. We can begin sending our people there immediately. I will be happy to help coordinate those efforts if need be. Perhaps I was wrong to doubt the Inquisitor. I only hope she can continue like this. My thoughts grow dark when I think of what we must do if she does not continue to recover._

What they must do? Leliana smiles. What does she mean? Does she mean to hold her down and force the lyrium on her? That… is Cassandra's way. Brute force. Little imagination. Still, the turnaround is… surprising. She should see the Inquisitor and investigate.

She tells herself that but spends the next hours combing through the reports her agents have sent her way. Corypheus and this Calpernia have their own spies. They have been hunting for a man named Vicinius. Why? They must want something. And whatever it is, it's imperative they get to him first. If only they had more information on this woman. She's already taken too much from them.

She digs further. By the time she realizes she's forgotten to visit the Inquisitor it's past the midnight hour. Perhaps in the morning then. She takes the stairs down. Perhaps some wine to help her rest. Sleep typically avoids her until the early morning hours. There is a wine she has recently discovered, or perhaps it's something to do with the bottling process or these particular vineyards. The wine has a taste of honey. There's something… warm and unexpectedly sweet about it. It reminds her of a different time. When she was younger, perhaps. More innocent. When she had happy memories.

Shadows shift in the light as she passes the abandoned library. She moves toward it. She needs to speak to Dorian about his experience on the Storm Coast. Additional insight could prove beneficial when she speaks to the Inquisitor. She can't trust Cassandra's judgment alone. The more information she has, the clearer the picture will become.

She rounds the corner and finds the Inquisitor instead. She should have known it wouldn't be Dorian. He tends to spend his nights in the tavern. Evelyn peruses a book absently, lifting her head moments later to notice her. There's another sweeping cut along her cheek. Eyes that see too far. "Sister Nightingale." She looks around her uncertainly, closes the book and eases it back into place. Her fingers trace along the spines of the books on the shelf and she pulls out another. "You're up late."

"I intended to visit you earlier but I thought you'd be asleep. It's a long journey back to Skyhold."

"I can't sleep." She opens a red volume, skimming the chapter contents before returning it. "I assume you're working. You never stop, do you?"

"Not really. Does it make me dull?"

She smiles half-heartedly. She takes another book. "No."

"You're searching through fairy tales." Leliana takes the book from her, green and weathered. "I remember this one. It's not one of my favorites. It's distributed by the chantry for children. The stories are censored." Typical really in the Chantry's hypocrisy. The elven tales and stories of Tevinter are absent.

"Shall we have the children read erotica?" she asks, her smile almost indulgent. Leliana nearly argues that it isn't what she meant. "What stories did you read?" Oh. Many. Lady Cecilie spoiled her that way. She knew her love for reading and sought out books for her. But she wanted to be entertained too and Leliana was happy to oblige. She consumed those books and memorized the tales. How romantic they were. And tragic. Something about that always seemed beautiful to her, no matter how sad. How foolish she was. It seems that's all she's ever had: love that dies too soon. "The nannies read me these stories when I was younger."

"Not your father?"

"No. I liked them because there were girls like me in them. Motherless girls. They went out and accomplished selfless deeds. Many ended with marriage. That was the end of their stories. I preferred the boys' endings. I wanted to be an adventurer."

"Is the Inquisition adventure enough for you?" Leliana asks. Evelyn smirks before it fades away. She looks through the book. This one is apparently not right either. She puts it away. "I've read Cassandra's report. You did well on the Storm Coast."

"My face would disagree."

"Your face has no cause for complaint." There's a beat in which Leliana listens to the flickering of the nearby torches. The Inquisitor looks at her face but doesn't meet her eyes. "I've been thinking of the news I gave you prior to leaving Skyhold and I worry it was a mistake. I thought you could not afford to have distractions while you were away. I thought giving you an answer, even if it was a painful one, would be better than doubt. Was I wrong?"

"No. It's sad. I'm sad. It doesn't make sense, does it? She wasn't a good person. But she could be." She looks at the shadows on the walls. Leliana follows her gaze and sees cobwebs. Castles are impossible to keep tidy. "If I write her family in time and offer my condolences…" She shakes her head. "Is that right?" Leliana doesn't answer. "I can't find the book I'm looking for. None of these are complete. I wonder if Maxwell would send it back if I asked. If they haven't bloody thrown it out. Or maybe Greta took it—one of the nannies," she specifies.

"Is it so important?"

"When I was a child it was the only thing that could get me to sleep. But I suppose I'm not a child any longer." She turns to her suddenly. "May I speak with you? In private."

"We're in an abandoned library. It isn't private enough?" But she understands. Sound carries here, below and above. Others might overhear them. She inclines her head for the Inquisitor to follow her. They take the stairs back up to the rookery. So much for her wine. There's a small room she has recently appropriated for her work. Sometimes the ravens are too loud. Sometimes she simply wants to be left alone.

The office is small. Not even a quarter of the size of Josephine's but it has a desk and one chair, her quill, her Nightingale sigil and her work. She lights the candle on the desk, fresh and red. It casts a small light in the darkness. Leliana closes the door. There's a tiny window up higher and Evelyn looks to it. The sky is a deep blue, the stars bright and pulsing. Evelyn looks to them and back to her.

"Will this do?" Leliana asks.

"It'll do."

Leliana waits. Evelyn looks around apprehensively. "You're holding on to something, yes? Tell me what it is and we'll find a way to rectify it." Evelyn shifts her eyes. She cannot look at her. "The Storm Coast sounded challenging. The withdrawal must be difficult. I confess, I've been reading about it since… we came to our agreement. It's a testament to your resolve that you made it there. That you were able to fight. Cassandra was worried, as was I."

"I'm fine now," she says quietly.

"Yes. And you vanquished the Red Templars. Even now you seem lucid. Brighter than before." Evelyn lowers her face. Leliana takes a breath. "You drank it, didn't you? After that first attack. Before you faced the templars at the docks. That's why you were different. That's why you won." Evelyn takes a shaky breath. "It's all right. You can tell me." Leliana wonders if the Inquisitor believes words like that anymore.

The Inquisitor holds her silence a long time. "Cassandra must know. She has to know."

"She doesn't. She wants to believe you so she's fooling herself."

"I've disappointed you. I've disappointed myself. I'm sorry." Leliana waits, fingers twined gingerly. "I knew Dorian had lyrium. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was obsessed. When I woke. When I walked. When I couldn't sleep. Everything hurts when you miss it. When you need it. Nothing is steady. That…  _thing_  nearly killed me— it knocked me out. It was the most rest I've had in weeks. Cassandra blamed herself but it was my fault. I wanted to stop taking lyrium. I'm the selfish one. I risked all of them. What kind of a leader puts their wants ahead of those who follow her?" She wipes a hand across her forehead. "I took it the moment I was alone. I needed the time to get my bearings. When we took that templar hold. You should have seen the look on Cassandra's face. The surprise. The… pride. And that look of guilt on her face, gone."

"Did you tell her?"

"No. I can't tell her. She'll lose confidence in me. She'll think I can't do it and I'll have to keep taking it. What if that's what's right?" Leliana looks at her. "I'm telling you because—" her face twists, anguished. "Because if I don't tell someone I'll keep doing it. I'll keep pretending. I'll hope I'm not caught. I'll be sick with the lie. I don't want to be a liar. I want to get better. I want to have control on my own terms. But I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can give what I must to the Inquisition this way. I wanted someone to know. Someone to keep me on the path of light."

"And you came to the woman of shadows? An odd choice."

"You must hate me."

"You faced a difficult choice and you did the best you could with what you had. That is our way, isn't it? To make those decisions that will haunt us. I will not condemn you for that." She goes closer. "I am curious. What are your intentions? To take it in secret? Or to try and abstain?"

"Every time I start again it gets harder to believe I can do this. It makes me wonder why I bother."

"You bother for yourself. And you bother for the Inquisition. That is enough. These are trials, Inquisitor." She stretches a hand out, fingers hovering over the Inquisitor's face. She takes it tentatively, lifting it to face her own. "You must see them through."

Grey eyes search her face, locking with her own. Maybe she demands the truth. "Why do you believe in me?  _How_  can you believe in me?"

"I was once like you. I felt alone and abandoned. I was broken. I thought I was nothing. I know how hard it is to believe in yourself, when no one is willing to believe in you. I was lucky. I had Mother Dorothea. She once said to me 'you are never powerless when others are in need'. Those words saved me. So allow me to believe in you, Inquisitor. You have been battered physically. Tormented mentally by an Envy demon. And in other ways. But you're here. You will continue to be here."

Evelyn's eyes flicker, the glint of a knife this way, the blaze of the stars another. "I feel it in my blood still. I know what it'll be like when it's gone and I'm afraid. How do I beat this? How do I stop this craving?"

Leliana's thumb grazes along the indentation of her scar. "I'm not sure." She looks at her mouth in the candlelight, as surely as Evelyn looks at her own, their breath not quite steady. "To start, we should probably avoid being alone with our temptations."


	25. Stories

It's early morning and the skies are still grey.

Cullen claps the flat of the sword on his shield. The sound carries through Skyhold, loud and hollow. The Inquisitor stands opposite of him, heaving for breath. "Again," he tells her. She charges. She's slow. Too slow. The greatsword slams into his shield with force, but not the kind he knows she's capable of. He pushes back and she staggers. She swings again but her grip is tenuous. Their swords clash and he moves against her. The greatsword falls away. She rolls her fist and takes a swipe but he catches her arm and shoves her face first into the stone wall, arm twisted behind her back.

She breathes hard, forehead pressed to the cold stone, body rigid. He doesn't ask her to surrender. He lets her go and she goes to the greatsword. The thing is a beast, about as large as the lyrium blade Meredith swung around. At this rate the Inquisitor wouldn't last more than a second against her. "We should take a break for now."

"I'm ready to go."

They both know she isn't. "I'm not." He remembers when he felt the same as she. He pushed himself past his limits. All he ever landed himself was injury after injury. In time he came to accept that if he wanted to continue, he would have to adapt. At least for the time being. She stabs the greatsword into the grass and sits hard on the ground. He tosses the sword and shield and sits beside her. Her eyes are narrowed and he wonders whether eyes, pale as hers are, have a sensitivity to the light. "It will get easier."

"When?"

She's angry. She's realizing that her body has betrayed her, that a parasite moved in while she drank the lyrium and now it's fighting her for control. She recognizes that it's winning. It will be winning for some time. It will feel like an eternity. "I wish I could say. I imagine it's different for everyone. But you've had good days. The Storm Coast, for example." Her eyes darken. "If you could do it then, you can do it again."

"How long has it been for you?" He doesn't have to ask what she refers to. He tells her. She rubs her eyes, as if trying to rouse herself. "I can't imagine that. I can't go more than a few minutes without thinking about it." She looks at him. "That's incredible. You're amazing." He shifts, uncomfortably. Flattered. He won't get comfortable. He can't get comfortable. The moment he does, it'll win. "How have you made it so long?"

Cullen sighs. "Honestly, I'm not sure. Every once in a while I pause and… I can't believe how long has gone by." He considers. "I've tried to stay focused on what I want for my life. The lyrium keeps us leashed to the Chantry. Right now I have to give everything I can to the Inquisition and I can't do that if I'm dependent on lyrium." She rests her arms on her knees, thoughtful. "I won't deny I feel selfish."

"Me too."

He looks at her, not knowing whether to feel ashamed for having said it. "You aren't." If anyone accused him of it he'd be hard pressed to disagree.

"You know about what I did at Ostwick." She sighs. "I never know when I'm doing the right thing."

"Were you and that mage—"

"No." The Ostwick Circle has a relatively mild reputation compared to many of the others spread throughout Thedas. The Inquisitor's actions there are some of the most troubling of its history. "I think some part of me—" she waits. "You hear the templars talk about it sometimes. Templar and mage games. You never know who's joking and who isn't. You're taught not to question them. The templars become your brothers and sisters. That's what they teach you. Maybe I liked her. I don't know. But it wasn't like that."

"But you  _did_  make a mistake." It's wrong to bring that time up now. Without the lyrium in her system it'll make her think too harshly of her actions. It'll drive her to the blessed numbing of the substance. That mage became an abomination. It killed another four templars and two mages before they were able to cut it down. Evelyn was taken to the gallows but only for a short time. Had she been any other templar without a noble name things would have ended very differently.

"That girl was terrified. I thought—that the Harrowing couldn't always be right. I thought I was doing the right thing."

Maybe it would have been different if she'd been taking lyrium. The matter was buried. The Knight-Commander of the Circle had her removed from her cell in the night. Cullen doesn't know what she did in the years after. Some were convinced she'd died in the abomination attack. "I know what it is to think you're doing the right thing." He sighs, thinking of Kirkwall. The lyrium kept him in check. It kept him from opposing Meredith. It kept him from compassion. He gets to his feet and grabs the sword and shield. "Let's go again."

* * *

 

Evelyn runs the ramparts, pumping her arms and legs and sprinting past Inquisition guards who look at her as if she's gone mad. It hurts. Her breath clogs her burning throat. She forces herself to keep going. This keeps her warm, at least. This almost allows some other feeling to bubble to the surface. Something that isn't despair or disappointment. It's easier here without the bulk of Skyhold citizens crowding the grounds. She pushes past abandoned rooms, doors with flimsy locks until winded, she slows and leans against a wall breathing raggedly. Ceasing her lyrium intake has diminished her stamina considerably. She hopes that exercise will help but all she's gained is a throbbing headache.

She tries to swallow the lump in her throat and licks her chapped lips. This will get easier. It has to get easier. It's something to do. It's a reason to be out of her room. The templars rarely venture up here. She hears laughter and turns to see Leliana watching her, amusement gleaming in her eyes. "I've been watching you run the ramparts for the past half hour. I wondered if Sera had thrown one of her jars of bees at you. I've never seen your cheeks so flushed."

The damned elf with her bloody contraptions. She's smashed them several times too close to the party. Evelyn's ears still ache remembering the last time Cassandra let loose on Sera for it. "That's only because you tend to see me in the dark. You might want to shield your eyes. My armor isn't the only thing that reflects sunlight." Leliana allows a pale smile. Evelyn's knees go weak and she isn't sure whether she's frightened of how unreadable the woman is or something else. Likely it's the withdrawal. Maybe it's the way she warned her of temptations.

"What  _are_  you doing?"

"Can't a girl run the ramparts?" She waves it away and takes a breath. "I'm trying to keep myself occupied."

"I'm sure there are some visiting dignitaries the ambassador would like for you to see."

Evelyn grimaces. In fact there are. She's received several notices from the woman. She has to get to them. She will get to them. Later today. But not yet. "Did she send you here to guilt trip me?"

"Would it work?"

"I'm not sure."

Leliana smiles and comes closer. "She didn't send me. I saw you out here and I suppose I couldn't help myself." She laces her hands behind her back and looks over the Skyhold grounds. "How are you?"

Leliana doesn't look at her when she asks and Evelyn takes the opportunity to study her profile. The last time she really saw it was in Halamshiral. The context of the conversation on the balcony escapes her but she remembers the levity of her voice. Her smile—the most genuine Evelyn recalls having seen it. There was a light in her eyes. She wishes she didn't know the warmth of her hands. "Cullen's just put me through several humiliating bouts. It'll be easier to best him when I can manage some sleep. I've become the Skyhold Wraith, walking the halls in the night."

"Then there are two of us."

What keeps her awake? Evelyn doesn't dare ask. "It's a shame for us to wander alone. Perhaps the wraiths of Skyhold should haunt together." Her footsteps always veer towards the rookery in the night until she forces herself to turn away. Leliana says nothing. Evelyn clears her throat. "I know I'm not good with words but I wanted to thank you. You've listened to me. And you haven't judged me—even when you've had every right. I'm not used to that." She tries to think of something else, a way to express that gratitude but comes up frustratingly empty.

"You are doing the Maker's work. You have no need to thank me. But, if you insist—you're welcome." She faces her. "I wanted to tell you, our agents have tracked down this person the Venatori are pursuing. Vicinius. He is located in Orlais. Perhaps if you go to his home you can see what they're after. I admit, I don't know what it could be but it must be good, yes? We should beat them to it."

The thought of going to Orlais saps the remaining of her energy. The country leaves her with mixed feelings. It was the beginning of the definitive end for her and Josephine. She was nearly killed. Cullen spoke to her about her lyrium consumption. On a positive note, she supposes she and Leliana grew closer and that's something to be grateful for. "If it's anything like my last excursion to Orlais, I should pack a trunk full of finery to get me through the evening."

"Dorian or Vivienne can help you pick something out. On second thought, forget it. Corypheus will have taken over by the time those two come to an agreement on anything."

The two mages tend to be at each other's throat. Evelyn initially thought she and Vivienne would get along better than she and Dorian. The man is a Tevinter mage, after all. But her 'cousin' has been an unexpected delight. She doesn't know anyone who can make her laugh the way he can. It seems stupid that she doubted him. She'll have to tell him. "Maybe we should let them argue and  _you_  can help me find something suitable."

Leliana crosses her arms lightly. "Me?"

"Why not? You have a way about you." Those who saw her in Halamshiral were dazzled.

"I do?"

Evelyn tenses, not sure how to respond to her coyness. There is a hint of mischief in her eyes but something else that remains guarded. "I haven't forgotten that you owe me a dance." Though she can hardly imagine keeping pace with Leliana on a ballroom floor. She's never seen the woman dance but can't see her as anything but graceful.

"I never promised," Leliana repeats lightly. Her eyes shift. More green than blue and gone colder. "I'll leave you to your running, Inquisitor." The tone of her voice is an abrupt change. "When you're ready for the intel on Vicinius, come see me. But not too late." Evelyn half-nods and Leliana leaves. She can't help but feel she's done something wrong but isn't sure what it is. Was she forward? Flirtatious? She bites her lip, embarrassed. Without the distraction of her presence, Evelyn feels the numb return, the body aches, the splitting headache.

She sees the templars below and thinks of her room, thinks of the templar tower, thinks of preparing the mixture. The thought alone abates some of the pain. She paces. Maybe a bath. And a drink. But what she wants is the drink that makes her insides hum, a hymn that carries her higher. What else has that kind of power? Faith? She thinks of Leliana's fingers on her lips. She swallows hard and takes off in a sprint.

She can outrun this. She will outrun this.

* * *

"What in the world are you thinking, my dear?"

Josephine turns away from the noble to face Vivienne. The woman is statuesque with a severe but undeniable beauty. Josephine envies her flair for fashion, jealous that the woman is able to get away with wearing far more extravagant items than she can without question. Not only is Vivienne always dressed to kill; she is also a masterful player of the Game. The Inquisition was fortunate to get such a woman on their side. Her connections and influence across Thedas can only benefit the Inquisition.

"Madame Vivienne. A pleasure." She can't remember the last time they spoke in depth, though the previous court enchanter has joined her on luncheons with prominent members of the Orlesian court. "Might you tell me what in particular you refer to?"

Vivienne arches an eyebrow, seemingly stunned at her stupidity. Josephine is unexpectedly flustered. She follows the woman up to her lounge room where she spends the majority of her time, removed from the general population of Skyhold. Josephine takes a seat opposite of her on the settee. Vivienne slips out of her heels and draws her legs up to regard her imperiously. "I refer to the matter with the Inquisitor, of course. You had an opportunity, a real opportunity to affect change in this Inquisition. Unfortunately you've lost the control you had over the Inquisitor and  _another_  has her favor."

Josephine's jaw twitches. She would like to stop being reminded of her lack of control. First Leliana and now Vivienne. It was never her intention to control the Inquisitor. Leading her towards better decisions was just a benefit. "I suppose you refer to Leliana."

"My dear, you do not know what's at stake. With what the Inquisition has accomplished, they'll look to the Inquisitor when seeking guidance to elect a Divine. That decision could shape the world and I'd rather see that decision in your hands than those of some radical. You are practical. Or were."

"With all due respect, Madame Vivienne, this matter does not concern you. Further, there has been no talk from the clergy of naming a possible Divine. The time with the Inquisitor and I is past." And how this woman came to know of it is beyond her. She blames the gossiping servants. "I will no longer hold any influence with her. Not the kind of which you speak." Evelyn was always stubborn and is fiercely conservative in many ways. What kind of a Divine would she choose? Someone like Vivienne, Josephine supposes—if the woman weren't a mage. If the woman were a candidate.

Vivienne casts a look at her expertly manicured nails. How does she manage it here? It's difficult for her and she doesn't go out to battle. "No, I imagine you wouldn't. Not while you traipse Skyhold, scraping at the bottom of the barrel." Josephine feels her jaw tightening and she forces herself to remain relaxed, to keep a pleasant and unreadable smile on her face. "I think it's only fair to warn you that I witnessed you drag in an errant piece of straw the other day, Ambassador."

"I do not know what you mean."

"Please, Lady Montilyet. Don't feign ignorance with me. You're better than that. And it doesn't fool me. Consider your decisions. Consider your circumstances."

Vivienne sighs and changes the subject. They drink tea and discuss the recent events in Halamshiral, as well as Vivienne's thinly veiled disdain at the woman who joined them from the court, Morrigan. Josephine makes polite conversation and they gossip but she can't stop thinking of Vivienne's remark. She witnessed her drag in hay, did she? And what does she mean to do with that information? Is she trying to help her? Is it a threat? It must be considered.

Josephine leaves when she senses Vivienne's grown bored and has no further use of her. The conversation sticks with her like molasses. She is unsure why everyone feels the need to lecture her about Evelyn, nor why they think they have the right. She isn't close to any of them, no one save for Leliana now that Evelyn is out of the picture. And even they don't talk much anymore. The accusation that Leliana killed the queen created some of that distance between them and now her own jealousy and mistrust regarding Leliana's relationship with the Inquisitor has only widened the rift.

It could be she's only imagining it.

She returns to her office and looks through the messages she's received. Some are the gratitude of nobles. They send offerings for the Inquisition and thanks for the material things she has gathered for them. She documents it in their books and finds another letter.

She recognizes the handwriting and holds on to it. Where does he get such creamy paper, she wonders? It isn't easy to find. In fact, it must take him some effort and coin. Everything with him is a gesture. She opens the letter.

_Milady_ ,

_I do not expect a woman of your station to ever grace us with your presence again at the tavern. I'll admit, I have found myself fantasizing about what it'd be like to have a meal with you. When I was a younger man, I enjoyed cooking for the women who were kind enough to allow me the pleasure of their company. There is nothing I could prepare you with these humble hands that would likely please a delicate palate such as yours, but I suppose I have found myself in a fanciful way of thinking since we've started speaking again. I had not realized how I'd missed your company, brief as it was. I'm no fool. Our stations are too far apart, as much as I may wish that things were different. I continue to be grateful for the little we can share._

_Yours,_

_Blackwall._

_p.s. Sera told me of your confrontation with the Tevinter. Do not let him get to you. The man likes to create trouble and likes to bust my—_  The following is scribbled out, illegible for her to read.  _He preens himself as much as any peacock. Tell me true, Lady Josephine, do I look so grizzled? I would like to appear as pleasing to the eye to you, as you are to me. The beard stays. I look better with it, trust me._

She has imagined what he might look like without the beard. Or perhaps if it was trimmed. He is very slovenly in some ways, but he smells clean and his voice is pleasing to her. She likes his roughness. Perhaps it feels adventurous. He is a contrast to the polish of Lord Otranto or the awkwardness of Evelyn. He is himself without apology. And he is grateful for what she can give him. He does not ask for more.

She reads the letter again, recognizing the devotion in it and it fills her better than any meal. She spends her nights agitated and sleeping fitfully, her thoughts alternating between Otranto, Evelyn and Blackwall. When sleep is particularly hard to come by she has a drink of wine, allowing her thoughts to drift, like her hands do, until she comes to something more pleasing. That differs. Sometimes she fixates on how strong Otranto's hands felt on her hips. Other times it's Blackwall and his words, his courtesy. Most often it's Evelyn, a hand to her face, eyes locked on her own as her hand—

Josephine swallows. For a minute she grapples with the tide of grief that comes over her. Then she stills, swallowing it, reducing it, dismantling what made it strong until it's nothing again and she is the superior one, the decision made for the best.

There's another letter. It bears the sigil of the Kirkwall viscount. With a light frown, she opens it.

* * *

Bethany is dead. It's been… twelve years. No, thirteen. This is the day she died. At least, Hawke thinks it is. She can no longer be certain. The Blight happened. Darkspawn overran Lothering and Carver came home, bleeding and muddy. Would it have been different if they'd gone in a different direction? If they'd left earlier? Would it have been different if she'd been the one to try to defend their mother? Would it all have been different if their mother hadn't insisted on Kirkwall? Her sister's face is only a hazy memory. Her mother's face the last she saw her remains horrifyingly clear.

Hawke slams into armor and mutters an apology. She apologizes too quickly, especially when she's back at the Inquisition's home base. Habit when she's surrounded by templars. Apostate guilt. Guilt for everything. Guilt for existing. She looks up. Cullen stares back at her, his lips thinning. Hawke pulls back. It's not fair that he's blond and handsome. It's easy to forget.  _Tell me what you know. I won't ask you again._  Whack. She stares past him. There's a part of her that always pretends to not see, that doesn't want to be seen. Only around templars. How fitting that she's in Skyhold. It's what Varric would want but what if she doesn't want it?  _It doesn't matter. You owe him this._

"Champion."

"Knight-Captain."

He frowns gently though whether it's at her or the title, she isn't sure. "You're, um—you're looking well." She stares blankly at him. During their late night talks she smiled. It agitated him. She doesn't know what prompted the smile, whether it was stark terror, wanting to antagonize him or a nervous tick. She still doesn't know. "I—think it's admirable that you're staying to lend a hand. And— I never gave you my condolences."

"For who?"

"I'm—erm—I'm sorry—?"

"Do you mean to express condolences for my mother? Or Anders? The mages that were massacred when you decided to annul the Circle—or Varric? For whom are you expressing condolences?" Cullen brings a hand to the back of his neck, scratching awkwardly. "Keep your condolences, Knight-Captain. I don't want them."

She walks away. He follows, easily keeping stride with her. "I understand your position—"

"You'll  _never_  understand my position!" Her eyes burn and she hates how he can reduce her to this so quickly. The Gallows were a nightmare. Her skin crawled whenever she walked there, the hair on her arms and the nape of her neck standing on end. He watched her. She watched him. She has no idea whether there was some disturbed attraction there or if they merely feared one another. The first time he pulled her into his office she was terrified of what would happen. She'd heard the stories of what happened to him in the Ferelden Circle. Fear turns kind people cruel. But he never hurt her that way and the relief makes her feel guilty and weak.

"You killed templars," he accuses.

"I did Kirkwall a favor. And if it is your opinion, Knight-Captain, that I killed good men and women than I fear I stopped one templar short." She knows the atrocities they committed. Raping mages, Tranquil and non-Tranquil alike. Making Tranquil the ones who thought about speaking out against the abuse. No wonder Anders was so angry. She was too and she didn't have a bloody spirit of justice inside of her. No one will ever understand her the way he did. The anger makes her hot.

"What happened in Kirkwall was terrible and we both played our part, but you can't deny that blood magic was out of control. You of all people know best how out of control it was."

She bites her tongue, trying to swallow the hatred swirling inside of her. It's been a long time since she's felt anything but numbness and it's disconcerting. She doesn't know how to check herself without a secret to protect, without Varric or Aveline to keep her in line, without having a family to safeguard. "Blood magic was out of control because of the Knight-Commander's tactics." It's hard to keep her voice even when all she wants is to shout.

"Are you excusing it?"

Typical. Why focus on the templars' faults when they can excuse every atrocity with the fear of blood magic? She stops sharply and glares up at him. "I know what blood magic did. You and Meredith like to throw my dead mother's memory at me. You only care about the pain a mage suffers when it's politically convenient for you. I haven't forgotten what happened to her," her voice shakes now and she can't get it under control. "But you and your templars did worse to Kirkwall than that maniac did. Whatever the maleficarum did, _your_  methods pushed them to it."

Bloody Cassandra. A fine conversation this was. If anything, she now loathes the man more and no doubt he thinks her suspect. Who will help her now? Varric's gone. Cassandra won't side with her against Cullen. Not an apostate she's seen perform blood magic. No, she's on her own.

* * *

She visited Leliana in the afternoon. Beams of light breached the rookery, illuminating the raven's cages and leaving others in the shadows. The light only seemed to graze Leliana, making a golden outline of her hood and armor. They talked of Vicinius' summer home in Val Royeaux, of how Evelyn must flatter him. The arrangements have already been made. Leliana kept herself at a distance, her eyes leagues further. Evelyn focused on the steadiness of Leliana's voice, trying to decipher the reason for it, while keeping her shaking, freezing hands behind her back.

"I'll make arrangements to depart straight away," Evelyn said.

"Come see me before you go."

She flinched at the words and Leliana noticed. Neither commented and Evelyn left to ready. Josephine said the very words to her before she journeyed to Crestwood. She went to Josephine in the morning hours after much internal debate. It was their first time together. Accidental. Only her lips could feel Josephine's deceptive warmth. Or maybe it wasn't deceptive then. Her voice had been soft. Evelyn kept her armor on. It was more of the same and she'd felt confused after it. Somewhat unsatisfied. Blackwall was still in the picture. She was insecure than ever.

She readies, foregoing her heavy armor and trading it for lightweight leathers. She isn't strong enough to drag herself around in what she usually wears. She trades her greatsword for a longsword instead. It isn't what she's accustomed to and it'll be a challenge but she can't afford to be weighed down. If she wants to give up lyrium she will have to make sacrifices. She sheathes the longsword at her side. It's light and thin, with a mean, sharp tip. She slips into her gloves and for minutes tries to control the tremors running through her hands. The lyrium philter on her desk is gone. Leliana took it but neither has replaced it despite knowing it can easily be done.

She leaves her quarters, passing templars who nod at her, whose eyes are sharp, their pupils like pinpricks. She returns to the rookery, out of breath by the time she arrives. Leliana is at one of the tables, her back to her. "Come," she says without turning. Evelyn goes.

Leliana looks her over and Evelyn tenses under the silent examination. "You're adapting. That's good. It's foolish to stick to the same strategy when circumstances change."

"It's not too thin?"

"The Maker will be your armor."

Evelyn wonders what sort of armor Leliana wore when she battled the Blight. She keeps her hand on the hilt of the sword, hoping it will make the shaking less noticeable. "You wanted to see me."

"Yes." She hesitates, her eyes clouding over in thought.

There's a long silence. "Is something wrong?"

She narrows her eyes as if only trying to get a clearer picture of her. "No. I wanted to give you something but I realize now that it isn't my place." But what does that mean? Evelyn considers pressing it but the spymaster is cagey and private. She doubts Leliana would tell her, even if she begged. "I apologize for making you come all this way."

"It was no trouble." What had she wanted to give her? "If you're thinking of what happened last time…" she remembers the candlelight of Leliana's office and dwells over how memories tangle together. She contemplates her failure—or victory—, at the Storm Coast. Does Leliana know what she's talking about? Or is she thinking of something else? "I'm not sure. I want you to know that I'm going to do my best to be better."

"Does anyone who isn't an advisor know?" A moment. "Does Dorian?" Evelyn gives an embarrassed shake of her head. "Perhaps someone should. Someone you're close to. I know things with Cassandra haven't mended. So there should be someone there for you that you feel you can rely on."

Her lips are numb. She touches her fingers to them experimentally. "I thought I could rely on you."

Leliana shifts. "You can. But I am here. And I can't always aid you from here."

"Do you think I'm going to use again?"

"I don't know. I hope not. For your sake. But I trust that you'll make the best decision for yourself and for our cause." Leliana looks at her and Evelyn feels the ache in her body again, rippling through her. "Know that I won't judge you. Not for this. I do not know how you struggle."

"Do you believe I can do this?"

"These are trials, yes? I still believe you will see them through."

Evelyn clears the lump in her throat. She nods. "Thank you for your confidence." Though she isn't sure that it is confidence. Do the Faithful rationalize their failures and fears as some sort of trial by fire? Are they deluding themselves? She squelches the thoughts. She can't start doubting herself. "I'll report back what we find on Vicinius. Wish me luck."

"I'll keep you in my prayers, Inquisitor."

* * *

It is mid-afternoon and Cassandra is certain that there are things she ought to be doing but for the life of her she can't recall what they are. So she is in her room with the apostate. They were reading together. She and Evelyn used to do this when she was merely the Herald. Some of this.

Hawke sat at the edge of the bed while Cassandra sat on the floor. She remembers thinking it was critical she not get on the bed. Hawke was previously foul tempered though she wouldn't tell her why.  _You've got something on your lips_ , Hawke told her.

And like an idiot, she turned her head. That was… she doesn't know how long ago. Hard in Hightown has been forgotten. Hawke pulled it from her hands and straddled her instead. Why didn't she think to push her away? All things considered, that was very forward of Hawke. Now all she can recognize is how hot Hawke's cheeks are when they graze against her own. How she continues to inadvertently draw the woman to her, only to be confounded by both the similarity of her body and how soft and oddly comforting it is while pressed to her.

Hawke's breath is soft and unguarded against her ears. She wonders if they do not go further because they have lost time with this or simply because they do not know how to. Hawke's kiss becomes more aggressive and Cassandra struggles to keep pace. She feels Hawke's hand on her breast and the air goes out of her until she's whimpered her name and taken her wrist to stop her. Hawke looks at her, rosy faced.

There's a knock. "There's someone at the door," Cassandra says.

"I don't care." She smiles and wraps her fingers around the back of her neck. Cassandra presses a hand to her chest to stop her. "Don't tell me you've grown tired of me now." No. She can't say that. They kiss again. She feels like some young, foolish girl. In fact, she has never acted so childishly. The knock comes again. They ignore it. A creak and the door opens. They separate quickly, getting to their feet.

The Inquisitor stares at them. Cassandra isn't sure who amongst them is most embarrassed. She waits for Hawke to say something stupid but she only crosses her arms, her chin lifted gently in defiance.

"We're leaving for Val Royeaux shortly, Cassandra." The Inquisitor's voice is unsteady. "Get ready and meet us at the gates."

"Do I get to go?" Hawke asks. "How else will Cassandra and I continue to play kissy face?"

"You'll stay here, Hawke." Evelyn scowls at Cassandra. "Don't be long." She leaves.

Cassandra shoots Hawke a look and follows. It doesn't take long to catch up to her. There's a thin layer of perspiration on the Inquisitor's face. Her cheeks are red. Cassandra doesn't know what to say. There's a lump in her throat. She doesn't know how to explain herself or if she even needs to. "Will you slow down?" She doesn't. Finally Cassandra takes a large step forward, taking hold of her arm. Why is she wearing such light armor? That is a question for later. "I'm sorry. I know what I said to you. I don't know how to explain it. I don't even know if it's real."

"That's swell. Just another noble woman getting her jollies." She pulls her arm away. "It's fine. You don't owe me anything. You never did." She moves away from her, wiping a hand over her face, heading towards the gates. Soon she's disappears. Cassandra glowers and turns, coming face to face with Hawke.

"Don't even know if it's real, hm?" She smiles. "Oh, Seeker." She puts a hand over her heart and feigns pulling out an arrow. Cassandra is still. "Don't worry. Neither do I." A faint narrowing of her eyes. "Let's call it good for now." Cassandra watches her walk away, the knot in her stomach tightening.

Not a moment later a whistle catches her attention. She turns to see Dorian. Why is he always lounging around like a cat, leaning against walls as if waiting for somebody to paint him? He straightens the silver robes around his neck. As usual, he looks impeccable. "That didn't work out very well for you, did it? But it was  _terribly_  entertaining. Seeker Pentaghast: heartbreaker!"

"Mind your business," she growls. She returns to her room to get ready to depart, wishing she'd been given time to prepare. Maybe it was a last minute decision on the Inquisitor's part. Hawke is nowhere to be found and she regrets that's how they had to part ways. She soon discovers Hawke has taken her copy of Hard in Hightown. What is to follow is another outing that will take weeks and the entire time she'll be stuck with Dorian, who will no doubt mock her at every opportunity, and an angry Inquisitor. Worst of all, Sera will be there and she won't have her book to silently ward her from conversation. Wonderful. She wishes she were not going. She wishes she'd locked the door.

* * *

Val Royeaux is as ostentatious as Evelyn remembers. Yet, there's something honest about their vulgarity. They wear their masks so there can be no mistake that what you see is a façade. What are they beneath? Vulnerable? Modest? Aberrations in Val Royeaux.

Evelyn wanders the market alongside of Dorian, who is far more at ease than she is. The heat is making her dizzy and she mops at her forehead with a handkerchief. "Let's grab something to eat," she suggests. Dorian acquiesces and they take a seat at a small outdoor restaurant, ordering a few of the recommended appetizers: crab cakes, warm bread drizzled with oil and diced olives.

"It's a good thing we've come without Sera," Dorian comments. "She would have ordered everything off the menu and then had ours, too." Evelyn smiles wryly. Sera has gone off to find one of her Red Jenny friends. Evelyn didn't object, having tired of the woman's complaints about the city. Cassandra chose to do some of her own wandering and Evelyn can't say she's broken up about it.

The waiter returns with drinks and their appetizers. The portions are enough for each of them to have a few bites before they're gone. Dorian makes sure he has the first bites, going so far as to drink her water before nodding, albeit unenthusiastically. Evelyn questions the color of the lemon wedge in the glass.

They spend the next half hour people watching and waiting for the rest of their meal to be brought to them. When it does, Evelyn picks up her fork but Dorian stabs into her dish first, having a bite of the fish and then the creamed potatoes.

"How hungry are you?" she asks.

He chews thoughtfully. "It's overcooked but it won't kill you."

She doesn't understand right away. "You're my poison taster now?"

"Don't be naïve, cousin. There are a number of agents spread across Thedas that would do anything to kill the Inquisitor. Including offing the staff at a mediocre restaurant to have the opportunity."

"I don't want you doing that for me."

"Neither do I, but someone has to. It'd be one thing if Sister Nightingale had vetted every aspect of this restaurant…" He pokes his knife and fork into the middle of his chicken breast, nodding with some approval before taking a bite. "Cousin, are you well?" Evelyn searches him for the usual mocking but it isn't there. "You're sweating buckets. And you keep sniffling."

"Do I stink?"

He leans in and has a whiff. "Not from where I'm sitting, at least."

"It's hot."

"Is that all it is?" He resumes his seat. "Is it a cold? The flu?"

"I'm just having a thing."

"A 'thing'?"

She swallows hard, glaring at the fish. It  _is_  overcooked. Rubbery. She sets the fork down. She doesn't have much of an appetite anyway. She hasn't for weeks. "An…" she doesn't know how to talk about it, especially to the last person who still looks at her as if she weren't disabled. "An allergic reaction. Or something. To lyrium." She swallows the word with the last of the water. Dorian passes his own to her and she looks at him gratefully, unable to refuse it, damning the unquenchable thirst.

"To lyrium?" He wonders aloud. "How very odd." She plays with the plate of food, pulling the bones from the fish. "I see. Now it makes sense. The armor, the weaponry. The Storm Coast." She says nothing. He has a few bites of his chicken. "You know, I'm afraid I'm really going to have to say something about this." She braces herself and he lifts a hand. A waiter hurries over. "This hasn't been seasoned. And my cousin's fish is overcooked." The waiter begins to make excuses. "No, have a bite of this and tell me it isn't bland. Did the chef even taste this?" The waiter makes apologies and takes it away. "And they call themselves a restaurant!"

"Can you not tell anyone, please?"

"Not tell anyone? This place should be avoided like the plague."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant." He looks deep in thought and Evelyn watches him. So much pomp but beneath that he is warm and protective. She finds her eyes watering and finishes the water, hoping to dampen the emotion. She bloody hates how feelings flood back into her, like explosions in the night after so much grey. She still doesn't know how to process it. It's uncomfortable. "You really like to make me worry, don't you?" She can't think of anything to say so she smiles, fingers twitching along the table. "Mh. Well, now that that tender conversation is out of the way, there's something else I'd like to speak to you about. Did I say speak? I meant tease. Listen, you're not really mad at Cassandra, are you?" Evelyn frowns. "Everyone knows you've always had a little flame in your heart for her but I thought that was long forgotten."

"I don't feel that way about her."

"Maybe you don't. Maybe you only wanted to steal a few kisses. That said, Hawke's beaten you to the punch. She's probably beaten you to more than that."

Evelyn doesn't know what he's trying to get at but wishes he'd shut up about it. She doesn't want to think of Hawke and Cassandra kissing. She's already seen it and can't forget no matter how she tries. Maybe Cassandra's resistance had nothing to do with being her being a woman and everything to do with her being Evelyn Trevelyan. That's what stings. She and Cassandra have barely said a word to each other. Every time she thinks things can't get worse between them, they do. Why is she so awkward? She should be able to suck it up and pretend it didn't happen. That was easier with the lyrium. She thinks of it, mixing it, wanting some. "I don't want to talk about it." Wasn't throwing a tantrum enough? "I'm… being sensitive, that's all."

"Possibly… I suppose I'll take it easy on you and let it go. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway. I've noticed you spend a lot of time in the rookery lately, dear cousin."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me. Look at that guilt. Written all over your face! So, somebody has piqued your interest. It's time. You and Josephine have been apart for months now and you and Cassandra were never going to happen. Which is for the best because you're both so terribly awkward."

"We're not that awkward—"

"Is it one of the agents…? Not Argent, is it? That woman is terrifying. She's like a Tranquil without being Tranquil. I'm convinced she's nobility. It's all in the nose." He turns to the side to illustrate it, tracing Argent's shape in the air beside his. "Or— who's the little dwarven one?"

"Do you mean Harding?"

"I know who bloody Scout Harding is," he says irritably. A beat. "Come to think of it… didn't I see you and our fearsome spymaster attached at the hip at Halamshiral?"

That's a bit much. "Was it before or after I was stabbed?"

"Before  _and_  after, now that you mention it." He smooths his mustache. "And perhaps more stabbings to come. Cousin! I'll grant you—she is a beautiful woman. Even when she doesn't make the effort… but she  _is_  the spymaster. And… she makes Argent look like a puppy. Don't tell me you're longing after her."

She remembers when Leliana scared her the same way. She doesn't know why she's flustered. She remains bothered by their exchange on the ramparts. "I'm not."

He chuckles. "No, never. Your face has gone red."

"I don't feel well." Her face has been primarily numb for the past week or so. "Leliana and I are …" They aren't friends. Are they friends? Not really. She isn't sure what they are. They're friendly. They're Inquisitor and spymaster. "Nothing is happening between us. We talk about the Inquisition."

"Just the Inquisition?"

Evelyn frowns. "I don't think that waiter is going to come back with the manager." She tosses the napkin on the plate along with a few coins and leaves, Dorian following swiftly after her. "Let's find Cassandra and Sera. It's near time to meet with Vicinius." She'd planned to go on her own but Cassandra and Dorian interjected. ' _You never know what manner of things these people will do.' 'Tevinters?' Evelyn asked. 'No, fool cousin! Merchants!'_

"Fine. But you're not off the hook."

They spend the next hour tracking the women down. Cassandra has found the latest chapter of Hard in Hightown. 'I don't have this cover' she tells them. A prickle of emotion runs through Evelyn. Maker. Dear Varric. It's not fair. Not any of this is fair. Sera's flirting with some qunari woman, at least a foot taller than Evelyn. They wait and she grudgingly leaves her side to join the outing to Vicinius' mansion. "You like qunari women?" Sera asks Evelyn as they walk.

"I haven't thought of it." The little time she spent in Rivain was spent drunk out of her mind and finding other humans for company. The qunari did not think much of her.

"Oh, come on!"

Dorian shakes his head at Sera. "A heathen qunari with a heathen faith for our dear Inquisitor? What are you thinking?" Evelyn sighs. He can't go a moment without making jokes and the worst of it is that he isn't entirely wrong.

"It would not be appropriate," Cassandra says. "The Chantry has been at war with those people for too long now."

"Perhaps because you call them 'those people'," Dorian suggests. "But we Tevinter love fighting them as much as you southerners. Not bad looking, though. Strapping."

"Who's strapping?" Sera asks. She looks at Evelyn who reddens again. No. She has not done that.

"We're here." Evelyn says, grateful to move on from the conversation. She goes to the gate and pushes it open. She forgot the wine. The bloody red wine. Leliana made it a point to tell her. It's too late now. By the time she returned she'd be unfashionably late and whatever honey she can dig out of herself wouldn't be enough to appease the affronted merchant. "You'll wait out here?" she asks them.

"Fraid not, cousin."

She sighs and knocks on the door, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Dorian hands her a handkerchief and she tries to clean herself up. She laces her hands behind her back and knocks again. She calls out to him, announcing her presence but only gets silence. She sighs inwardly. "What are the chances that something is wrong?"

"High," Cassandra says.

She tries the door and it swings open. "Not a good start." She mutters. She grabs her fingers around the hilt of her sword and draws it out. She's surprised at its lightness. So light, in fact, the flat of the blade quakes against her leg.

"What's on with you?" Sera asks with a nod to the sword.

"Vicinius' summer home is appallingly messy," Dorian responds. "I'm getting the shivers, too. No wonder he lives here. Tevinter would be appalled. I think I'm breaking out into hives."

"Something is not right," Cassandra says. She is good at stating the obvious. Evelyn had previously found it charming but now it annoys her. Now everything annoys her. Cassandra moves further into the home. Dorian looks at some of the torches and they light. It's a nice trick. It's almost easy to trust him with magic. Maybe it was a gift from the Maker. "They've torn this place apart."

"Who's  _they_?" Sera asks.

"Likely the Venatori," Evelyn's muscles begin to clench painfully. "Be on guard." They look through the place. Some of Vicinius' scattered notes. She takes them. Something about slaves. Maybe Leliana can find some meaning in them. She looks up the stairs and sees only darkness. The entire home is dark. Did the Venatori get to him first? She takes a hold of the railing and pulls herself up as quickly as she can, half out of breath by the time she gets there. There's another dark hallway leading to a room. Dorian and Cassandra are at her side soon enough. Evelyn moves forward cautious and is slammed into the wall an instant later. Sera pins her there, a wave of fire exploding past them. Cassandra lifts her shield and rushes into the room.

Evelyn mutters thanks to Sera and follows in after her. Venatori. One looks into a book of spells, reciting something. Nothing good, whatever it is. He notices her and speaks faster. She goes to him. Her reach isn't as long as she's accustomed to. She slashes and one of his hands falls to the floor. Light or not this is no toy weapon. He lifts his bloody stump and Evelyn grabs hold of his cloak, breathing raggedly and shoving him against the wall, plunging the blade into his heart.  _Die._  He fights back, making her stumble before he falls, dead.

There's fighting around her. The space is cramped. Flashes of lighting. Arrows whistle past her, burying into the wall. One of the mages raises a staff. She falls to her knees, unsure whether it's intentional or not and forces the blade into his leg. He yowls and grabs her. Normally she can throw these men and women aside as if they were nothing. Today he takes tight hold. He says something that she doesn't understand and slams his head against hers. The spiked helmet detonates pinpricks of agony, becoming explosions that wreak havoc against her skull. She clutches her head, trying to gather her senses when a blade comes out of his chest, followed by three arrows.

She never fails to be impressed by the speed of Sera's archery. The Venatori falls over dead. Evelyn swears softly. She's sweating everywhere again. "Is that all of them?" she asks. She crawls a few steps, disoriented and gets to her feet. The whole skirmish was under a minute and she's still winded, feeling a stitch on her side, blinking sweat from her eyes. "Are there more?" She wipes her face with the back of her hand, her head pounding. They're all making a face. "What?" She spots him then, Vicinius—or whom she assumes to be Vicinius, dead in his armchair. There's blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor. "Shit." She goes to him, touches his face, hoping against hope. He's already cold. "We were too late."

"We were on time." Cassandra says. She makes that face at her again. "Come here." She takes a cloth from her bracer and goes to Evelyn. "That Venatori was remarkably aggressive. You're bleeding everywhere." Cassandra pulls away the cloth after dabbing at her cheek and it comes away red.

"Why no templar tricks, Herald?" Sera asks. "Less fire that way, yeah? We drop them fast. If you need more of the sauce, Dorian's got some, right?"

Evelyn shakes, her appetite for lyrium reignited again, the hunger so persistent she can't pay attention to Cassandra and the way she tenderly wipes the blood from her face. She's desperate for it. Did the Venatori drop any? She pulls away from Cassandra. "They snuck up on us."

"They always sneak up on us," she says.

"Drop it, Sera," Cassandra warns. "We should search the study. Vicinius may be dead but if the Venatori were here perhaps they were looking for something."

"Good idea." Evelyn pulls away from Cassandra, grudgingly standing still long enough for Dorian to give her a dash of healing. She wants to move, to search. All she finds are bits of some magic crystal, voices coming from it. Calpernia. Vicinius. But it doesn't matter now. She can't focus on that. Her search turns desperate. She flips the couches, moves the desk, moves the bodies of the Venatori. If she finds something, even a little, she can slip it into her sleeve, her boot, she could have just a taste and make the shaking go away, the aches, the cold. Another five minutes of frantic searching passes.

"I'm bored, let's go," Sera says.

Finding nothing more, Evelyn agrees.

* * *

The morning has been spent gathering what she can from the noble ties she has both in Kirkwall and Starkhaven. She reads old letters, searching for nuggets of information that indicate the mood of both, as well as what those in neighboring cities have been saying. She finds little to guide her and sets the letters down, dispirited.

There is one other letter that she has been saving. She opens it now, taking a sip of wine to soothe her morning headache. Adorno greets her cheerfully, laughing at the circumstances that transpired between them and speaking fondly of their last week together.  _I have told Mother and Father of you and they are eager to welcome you into the family. You have bewitched me, Lady Josephine. I dream of the time we spent together and am eager to see you again. I have sent you a basket of all those Antivan treats you told me you desperately missed. Please enjoy them and try to behave yourself when I'm gone. Your future husband, Adorno._

So that is the basket that has been sitting in the chair opposite of her. She plucked the bottle of wine from it but did not read the note attached or look further. She looks at it now. Adorno has written out a list of the items enclosed along with what market they were procured from. He is thoughtful, knowing she'd want to know their origin. She throws the letter out and carries the basket with her.

Every morning she sees Blackwall walk the outskirts of Skyhold, walking the horses or gathering flowers. He is a contrarian man. He speaks gruffly but his words are soft. He sometimes appears dirty and disheveled but his word is unblemished. He is honest and kind and Josephine wants for a person like that to think well of her.

She finds him past the gates. The weather is warming and she makes it to him without a blemish on her dress for which she is grateful. He notices her and smiles, tying the horse to a nearby tree and coming closer. "Lady Josephine. This is a bit out of the way for you." He looks down at the hem of her dress and back to her. "But your dress remains immaculate. Lucky. I don't think I have the coin necessary to replace it."

"I have brought a basket of Antivan treats. If the dress were to have been ruined, all I would ask is for your company. As a matter of fact, that is the very reason I came." He's surprised. She walks to a grassy bank and has a seat. She pats the ground beside her and he joins her. She would have preferred to bring a blanket but worried she'd lose her courage. Now they sit together and the sun is warm on her back. She looks at him. "You look well."

"If only I could say I look half as lovely as you." She lifts an eyebrow. "That is—as handsome. Maker's Balls." He bows his head and chuckles. "This is why I write letters."

"I welcome your letters. And presence." She reaches into the basket and pulls out a box of chocolates. "I confess that in the early morning hours I look over the grounds and find myself searching for your figure. I received this basket this morning and remembered your letter. You mentioned wanting to share a meal?"

"That I did, my lady."

"We do not have to begin with dessert. But I suppose I am feeling rebellious. When I was in Antiva, my mother would slap these out of my hands. They would ruin my figure, she said." And spoil any opportunity for engagements. She provides him a chocolate. "Don't you have to compliment me now?"

"I don't know if I dare." He has the chocolate. "That's like having the Maker in your mouth, isn't it?" Josephine laughs. How blasphemous. How apt. Evelyn would be appalled. "Well, now that you're laughing, I might as well press my luck. I don't think there's anything wrong with your figure, nor do I imagine, it would matter if anything were. Your character is so beyond repute that I can think of nothing that could tarnish your beauty." She bites the inside of her lip. "Blast. I've mucked it up, haven't I?"

"No. Not at all." She looks at him, the hole on the shoulder of his shirt, his skin beneath and fights a compulsion to touch it, to touch him. She wants him to compliment her, to touch her face and tell her everything he likes about her. She gives him another chocolate and he chews on it. So much spent coin, swallowed so easily. "How does the Maker taste this time?"

He laughs. "There are sweeter things. Not available to me." He fiddles with the grass between his fingertips. His fingers are scarred and callused, pale in places, cracked from the cold. She has lotions she might provide him, oils, but she isn't sure if he'd accept them or how he'd feel about smelling so fragrant like. She is not opposed to his smell, a musk of hay and sweat, the scent of a man who works diligently. "What else have you got in that basket of yours?"

She places it before them and together they pull out various cheeses, other treats, and another bottle of wine. Adorno provided two, bless him. She gasps. "I did not know there was a bottle here. I would have brought us wine glasses."

"I suppose you wouldn't dream of being a savage like me and drinking it from the bottle, would you?" She looks around. There are people walking about. She gives a small shake of her head. "Of course not. How daft. You're already risking a great deal by being seen with 'the hairy lummox'." What? He gets to his feet. "I thank you for the chocolates, milady, and your company most of all." He offers his hand and she takes it, his fingers wrapping around hers and tugging her gently to her feet.

"There is no reason to thank me. I wanted to enjoy these delights. And I could think of no other…" Whom she might enjoy them with? That would want to enjoy them with her? Nor anyone else, outside of perhaps the Inquisitor, that Adorno would be so frustrated at her dining with. "Perhaps we might meet at another time. In the evening. When there are less watchful eyes."

His eyes lift tentatively. "Oh, that's…" He coughs. "If milady is… I am at your disposal," he says cautiously. She wants to tell him about Adorno. Even if they can never be, she can't bear the thought of him thinking she's dishonest. Even if she is dishonest. She means to tell him the truth. She should tell him now. Her cheeks burn with shame. "Your face is flushed. Are you feeling feverish?"

Her throat is dry. "There is something I must tell you." Something she 'should' tell him. Not something she 'must' tell him. But there are many who know of her engagement. If word got to him first… he would distrust her and she would lose the only one who wants her company. "My family has betrothed me to a man. A stranger, really. Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto. Perhaps you saw him wandering Skyhold some time ago." His eyebrows dip gently. "I have no choice, you see. It is a matter of family. Of honor. Duty." Coin.

"I see." He looks around as if searching for answers. Finally he sighs, defeated. "I thank you for telling me. Even if I did not deserve it. You prove to me yet again to be a woman of integrity."

Her heart beats quickly. She has come forward with the truth and it has lifted her further in his eyes. A pleasant surprise. "I sometimes wonder if these obligations will be the end of me," she says with a bright smile, despite how tight her chest feels. "And sometimes I think that without them I am nothing." She lowers her face, with a shake of her head. How could she say such a thing aloud? "Forgive me. I do not know what it is I'm saying. I will leave you now, Ser Blackwall. Do not feel as if… You have no obligation to me. Your only obligation is to the Grey Wardens and to the Inquisition." Honorable. "You need not visit with me. Not if it isn't your wish."

"But I don't see that anything has changed between us. Different stations and all. If you would allow me to torture myself with your presence, I am yours."

Josephine's fingers curl around the handle of the basket. "I would very much like that."

* * *

Perhaps she should not have sent the letter.

Leliana presses her palms together, thoughtful. Is it a weakness to think of Tug still? No. It is the least she owes him. He saved her—and Sketch, too. Perhaps Sketch will receive the letter. Perhaps—if he's no longer angry, he'll respond. It took her ages to write it. The longest she's written in years. The most personal. A piece of her heart. A piece of herself. The last betraying her vulnerability.

_And so I ask, old friend, if there was anything that your way discerned of Tug's way? Anything in your former life that would lead me to who he was? I would treat his memory better. You were honest in all things with me. You were honest, or you were a master. I need either now._

Maybe she shouldn't have written the letter.

It's been over a week since she sent it. Was she lonely? They were her first friends. Her first true friends. Their intrigues got Tug killed. Marjolaine's betrayal. And perhaps, Tug's honor. She survived, didn't she? And so did Sketch. That's how these things are. The honorable don't live long. The ones who matter to her less so. Where is the Maker now to guide her? Where is He? What she found on Tug's tortured body. All these years she has no answers and it has dug deep into her. What they did to him. It was despicable. Not that Marjolaine and Harwen's men were good to her, either. But she lived. That's more than he got. She remains haunted by Tug. Did she ever know him? Is it only conceit that leaves her prickling? That she didn't know those around her as well as she thought? Or is she seeking something to ease her loneliness? Something that will make her feel close to him? She doesn't know how to honor him the way she should.

"Leliana." She looks up. Josephine. "Are you all right? I've been here for nearly a minute and you have only just taken notice."

"Maybe I was playing coy," she says. It's the first in a long time that Josephine has sought her out. It's only a pity that she can't tease her about Blackwall and her engagement anymore. She'd take it personally and no doubt she'd try to get some answer out of her about what she thinks is happening between herself and the Inquisitor. No. They cannot be playful in that way right now. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes. Something is very much the matter. Fortunately, the Inquisitor has returned," she wrings her hands. "Perhaps you can talk to her."

"Why me?"

"Please, Leliana." Her agitation is evident. "You know she will not so much as even speak to me. She listens to you."

She's wrong. If anything, she tells the Inquisitor nothing.  _She_  is the one who listens. "I won't be able to talk to her if you don't tell me what needs to be brought to her attention." Josephine sits and pushes a letter to her. The Viscount of Kirkwall's seal. Leliana opens the letter and reads it. "This man again. Let's just kill him." She isn't entirely sure if she's joking but smiles at how appalled Josephine is. The suggestion is not a bad one. Kirkwall is already in disarray but recovering. Assassinating the 'Viscount' would throw it into chaos again. The people could get back to treading on one another in hopes of securing a small position of power. Varric was sending Bran a good deal of coin to keep him at bay. To keep Hawke safe. Now that the flow of coin has ceased, he comes after her. How predictable. "You object?"

"Of course I object. I don't know if you're teasing me but this is not something that should be said even in jest. This all began with the attack on Skyhold. We lost the king and the queen." She barely looks at her as she says the last. "Arl Teagan is certainly taking advantage of the situation and those who desire power are going along with him."

"Viscount Bran is even more spineless than Viscount Marlowe was. He's toothless."

"Except that some of the ladies of court at Starkhaven are now whispering that Bran has the backing of Prince Sebastian Vael and you cannot deny that  _he_  has a military." Leliana considers that. "We cannot afford another complication."

"No one cares about Kirkwall or its Viscount." Kirkwall is blamed for the mage-templar war. Many think it ought to be left to its fate. "Even Prince Sebastian's army is nothing compared to the Inquisition."

"True. But what of the rebel mages and Venatori? What of those that have lost family to apostates? There is a lot of hatred and fear in this world, Leliana. The people are not thinking clearly. They are looking for someone to direct their frustration to and Arl Teagan would guide them. We are where we are because of our reputation. We have aligned with the templars but some suspect this is merely a political move. If Arl Teagan manages to rally other noble homes to his cause… It could spell trouble. Sheltering Hawke is… unwise."

"Better to give up Hawke than risk the Inquisition, hm? I happen to agree." Cassandra won't like it but she'll see that it's necessary for the bigger picture of the Inquisition. Hawke is resilient. She'll be able to take care of herself.

They turn when they hear the sharp, attentive greetings of the agents. The Inquisitor has returned and in one piece. So, He does hear prayers. When it suits Him. But she is glad to see her, despite the new bruises she's gained. Her pace slows when she notices Josephine but she comes forward regardless. Leliana gives a nod.

Josephine stands. "Your Worship. I am pleased to see you returned safely. I have been speaking to Leliana about a matter that has recently come to our attention. I would appreciate it if you gave it some consideration. Leliana can provide any additional details you may need. But I recommend a War room meeting as soon as you are able."

"Our dear Hawke can't seem to stay out of trouble," Leliana says.

"I'll make sure it's taken care of," Evelyn tells Josephine, her words trailing away as if having lost her thought mid sentence.

Josephine hesitates as if to speak further before nodding and making her exit. Evelyn turns her head and Leliana thinks she's following Josephine's movements until it becomes apparent she isn't. She stands, alert. Does she hear something? Leliana calls to her twice before Evelyn hears her. She looks around, appearing lost. Her pupils are dilated when she looks at her. Are her eyes searching for light? She will see only darkness if she stares at her. Leliana gets to her feet. "Is something the matter?"

"I thought I heard…" she shakes her head. She looks at her and her eyes dilate further. Leliana stares back at her, curious, the silver of her eyes like crescent moons. "I brought a report," she says with unexpected cheer. She produces it from behind her back and extends the rolled parchment, her hand shaking violently. "And some documents found at Vicinius' estate."

Leliana steps forward, shielding her from the agents that look. She takes the documents and then her wrist. It quakes in her grip. "Thank you, Inquisitor. You continue to weather your trials." She searches for some other comfort. "The Maker is with you."

She feigns a smile. "It isn't always like this. Just recently. The past few days." She apologizes and withdraws her arm. Her gaze flits. Leliana reminds herself to not touch her. "Vicinius is dead. But we found a broken crystal. I've brought it to Dagna but she won't begin work on it until you've seen it. We think it was Calpernia's."

"That's promising. Thank you."

"I've been thinking…" Leliana waits. "Of the ramparts." Evelyn's eyes are far away, they narrow as if focusing on a memory. "Erm." Seconds trickle by in silence. "It seems… I wanted to apologize if there was something I said that… I wanted to apologize. You were displeased with me, I think. Or cold…? Somehow. I've just been thinking of the ramparts. And it made me... I wanted to apologize."

Leliana swallows thickly. She's been without the lyrium a little over a month hasn't she? Is this what happens to all of them? She thinks of what she nearly gave to her. Perhaps she should have given it to her. Perhaps it would be best for her to taper off instead of stopping cold turkey. "I am not displeased with you. I have been dwelling on sad memories, Inquisitor. Perhaps more than I should have." A beat. "I have something for you. Will you wait here for me?" Evelyn nods.

Leliana goes to her office, unlocking the door and moving to her chest of belongings. She finds the small leather bound volume. The cover is black, engraved with a drawing of Andraste's Grace. Leliana traces the flower, unexpectedly anxious. She debates whether to give it to her. She sets the journal on the desk and opens the report Evelyn has given her. The handwriting is so shaky it's almost illegible.  _When the fight was done Sera called me out on not using my templar abilities. Just the mention of lyrium made me feel crazy. I tore the place apart but I couldn't find any on the Venatori. Maybe that was the Maker's blessing. I'd like to think I wouldn't have taken it but I'm not sure._   _I can't remember the last time I felt like a person. This doesn't feel better._ Leliana rolls it up. Maybe she was wrong to support her. She's succeeding in what she wanted. Maybe this is the worst of it. Or she'll start hallucinating if she isn't already.

She takes the journal and returns, worried that the Inquisitor will have already gone. She remains, leaning into the railing. She looks at her and smiles. Leliana forces herself to return it. "Inquisitor. May I walk you to your quarters?" She wants to make sure she'll get there without being sidetracked. Without ending up Maker knows where. The Inquisitor nods and they walk over in relative silence.

The sun has just set and the servants are moving down the grand hall igniting torches. The Inquisitor follows their movements, the spark of the fires captivating her attention until they enter the first door that leads to her chambers. Their steps echo shockingly loud as they make their way to the second door. Leliana stops there as does the Inquisitor. "I'm going to have your dinner brought to you."

"All right." She seems puzzled. "The Ambassador… There's something we need to talk about?"

"It can wait until morning. You should take the remainder of this evening to rest. I worry you push yourself too hard."

Evelyn smiles as if she's made a joke. "Said no one ever."

"I'm saying it now. And…" Leliana hesitates holding the volume in her hand. Evelyn watches her. The more time that passes, the more flustered she feels. "I wanted to give you this." She thrusts it into Evelyn's hands, grimacing somewhat at how forcefully she has done so. Evelyn takes the book, looking for a title, opening it and flipping through the pages. "Some time ago you were looking for a particular book of stories. This is not it. But it has many legends and stories that have been passed down for generations. Stories that have been lost. The stories you sought—I'm sure you'll find them in here."

"It's handwritten." She looks at her.

Leliana crosses her arms gingerly. "I was a bard, no? Long ago. Stories have power and I used them. A story can soften the most hardened heart. A story can seduce you into abandoning everything for a dream. I used to love telling stories. As I advanced in the Game, I came to use what I loved as a tool for deception." It wasn't always that way. Not with her. But after she died, so did her love of stories. "One day I discovered it no longer gave me pleasure so I stopped telling them. But stories can bring joy, comfort, solace. It seemed a waste to forget those stories—as so often happens when they're not told. So I wrote them down. Once I finished transcribing a story, I never told it again. It saddened me but I was no longer encumbered. I was free of my trappings. A storyteller must always hold love in their heart. Light. Such things make it difficult to do my work." Evelyn holds the book as if it were a religious artifact. "You have trouble sleeping and I no longer need to hold on to old stories. If it can help you… I thought…" She isn't sure. She can't remember the last time it was difficult to articulate her thoughts.

"This is… I don't know what to say. I—"

"Say you'll read them. And that you'll get some rest."

"When will you rest?"

"When everyone I know is safe." She wants to reach out to her and leaves before she gives in to the temptation. Perhaps this is some misguided affection. Justinia gave her life for this woman and in return, Evelyn has nearly given her own many times for the Inquisition: the course Justinia would have ultimately chosen for Thedas.

She must not think of it. There are other matters at hand. She has others she must protect. Her feelings don't matter. Her comfort. Her peace of mind. She has a letter that must be retrieved.

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: Shadows! Which no one read. The original author's note indicated I'd borrowed from that story that I'd written while trying to avoid turning this into a Treveliana story. I think that's what someone once called it? I'm all about that name.


	26. Summons

Josephine steps between Hawke and the door and marvels at their audacity. Who is Hawke to think that she can step into a War Room meeting without being invited? If Hawke presses the issue Josephine knows she won't be able to stop her. It's true that they've never cared for one another. Hawke thinks her as uptight as the Inquisitor once did. She thought their disagreements might resolve themselves now that she and the Inquisitor are finished but it appears to not be the case. Hawke is taller than she is and slimmer, but her eyes flare like lightning. If she wishes to remove her she will do so.

"Let me through." Hawke repeats.

"I cannot." They are going in circles. "Again, Lady Hawke, we will alert you once a decision has been made."

"I'll know as soon as a decision is made if I'm in the room. Or are you advisors too cowardly to let me see your faces when you throw me to the wolves?"

Josephine flushes. She knows her vote. She knows Leliana's. Ultimately, Hawke is an inconsequential party. She is a powerful mage but despite her work in Kirkwall she stands alone. Her greatest ally is dead and her friends scattered to the wind. Cassandra favors her, true, but she will never choose her over the Inquisition. She will never choose her over the Inquisitor. For that, they are all grateful. "You are making bold assumptions—"

"Do you think you can decide what to do with me? I could leave right now."

Hadn't Evelyn made the same threat previously? She did not go. "That is not—"

The door to the study slams shut. They turn to look at the Inquisitor who stands taller than she has in some time. Her cheeks are red, her eyes are near black save for the ring of silver around them. They are clear. Clearer than Josephine has seen them in months. She comes closer. "What is going on here?" Josephine notices herself and Hawke's spine straighten, both instantly silencing. "I've asked a question. I expect answers."

"Your ambassador is barring me entrance to your war room meeting—"

"You're not an advisor. Why should you be let in?" Hawke looks back at her. She licks her lips as if trying to slow the threat of words on her tongue. Josephine has never seen such anger on anyone's face. The Inquisitor stares back at Hawke unflinchingly. Until there's a shift, as if some memory has been sparked. She deflates, a flicker of fear in the Inquisitor's eyes before she hardens again. She brings her trembling fingers behind her back. "Now will you remove yourself or shall I have you removed?"

" _Can_ you remove me? Or will you need your guard?"

"I don't think you want to test me  _or_  my guard."

Hawke steps closer. "Is that so?"

They're close now. Close enough to kiss. "Step away this instant." The energy in the room crackles. Josephine tenses. What will happen if this escalates? She could scream for the advisors. There's no need. Hawke's shoulders slump. Her eyes glisten. She pulls back and leaves the room. The door shuts gently behind her. Evelyn looks after her and closes her eyes, breathing a small prayer, exhaling. Josephine wonders if her heart beats as quickly as her own. She flexes her hands in that anxious way Josephine recognizes and turns her attention back to her. Josephine startles. It's been a long time since the Inquisitor hasn't stared past her. "Are you all right? Did she give you trouble?"

Josephine nods stiffly, questioning the dryness of her mouth and throat, trying to find words for her. She is touched by this display that likely means nothing to the Inquisitor. "Yes. Thank you, Your Worship." Evelyn looks at her and Josephine curses herself again for giving her away. "Your timing remains impeccable." A small nod and Evelyn remains. Is she distracted? "She did make some threat of going out on her own—"

"She wouldn't make it very far." A small sigh. "Let's get this meeting started, shall we?" She stretches an arm out, encouraging her to move ahead of her. Josephine gladly goes, paying close attention to how her footsteps follow after. They walk down the hallway and Josephine thinks of the kisses they shared here, the knife the Inquisitor took for her, the man Josephine allowed to fall to his death in retaliation for nearly killing Evelyn. Does she think of that as well or does she no longer dwell in her thoughts?

The other advisors wait in the war room. Cullen scowls at the map of Thedas. Leliana holds flame to red wax, letting it drip onto a folded letter. Josephine's stomach clenches at how her gaze drifts to the Inquisitor, just as the Inquisitor's drifts to her. Then away. Cassandra paces. "What took you?" Cullen asks.

Josephine readies her response but the Inquisitor steps forward. "Just a minor setback with another entitled noble." Josephine thins her lips. Yes. It is probably best they not poison the well before the meeting gets started. "I believe you have all the details on the purpose of this meeting, Ambassador. Why don't you take the lead?"

Josephine had not expected being given the reins. "Thank you, Your Worship. The matter is simple. The Viscount of Kirkwall has asked that Lady Marian Hawke be returned to Kirkwall to face justice for the damage sustained to the city-state as a result of the actions of her and her comrades. While the Viscount  _is_  relatively harmless, as Leliana has pointed out, the people of Kirkwall remain angry, as does Prince Sebastian Vael. Further, we have cause to believe that Bran is working with Arl Teagan and this is all part of some elaborate plot to continue to discredit the Inquisition. How can we, after all, claim to speak for Andraste and end the chaos at work in Thedas when we continue to harbor a woman responsible for the Circles uprising? A woman, who was in fact, the lover of the man who killed Grand Cleric Elthina?" She does not miss how Cassandra and the Inquisitor's faces darken.

"It is absurd to me that we have called a meeting to even entertain this idea," Cassandra says, at last ceasing her pacing. "We know what Hawke did in Kirkwall. She escaped the Blight to find herself in a city full of corrupt templars." Cullen's eyes narrow. "And in her time there she did considerable more good than harm. She cannot be blamed for Anders' actions. She put that man to the knife herself."

"There are some that doubt she was completely innocent," Josephine points out. "How could she be unaware of what he planned? Some say she helped him gather the necessary materials to blow up the Chantry."

"Who says that?" Cassandra demands.

Leliana sets her Nightingale stamp on the wax. "Some."

_"Who?"_

"Varric." Leliana answers simply.

Cassandra scowls. "It does not mean that she knew."

"But it is just enough doubt to sow the seeds of discord," Josephine says. "For all we know there are other Darktown residents, who, when questioned, might say that Hawke did indeed help him gather these materials. If prompted, they might even lie. No doubt deals can be worked out to benefit them. The parties who would hold Hawke accountable, if nothing else than to harm the Inquisition—"

"Anyone can lie," Leliana says. "With a little persuasion, we can prompt these deceivers to be more forthcoming."

"By torturing them, you mean?" Josephine asks. Leliana sets her sigil aside. "I do not trust this. I do not trust Arl Teagan. Clearly he suspects the Inquisition of having assassinated the Fereldan royalty either through action or inaction. I believe he aims to gather the Fereldan nobility and sovereigns and disband us when he has enough of a following. Arl Teagan is well loved. The people will follow him."

"This is all assumption," Cullen says. "There is no hard evidence that Arl Teagan is conspiring against us. The man isn't even king."

"Not yet," Leliana crosses her arms and sighs. "I suppose we all knew this day would come. The Inquisition has grown and now we have opponents that could do even greater damage than Corypheus. All in their bid for power and status. Pathetic."

Josephine takes a breath, frantically trying to take notes. She wishes someone else would take notes for once but doesn't trust the others to document every little detail. "Be that as it may, it falls to us to make a decision." She looks at the group. Cassandra is angrier by the second, Leliana looks somewhat bored. She can't read Cullen's face. "Shall we take a vote?" The group nods. "I say we give Hawke to Kirkwall. It is, after all, a Kirkwall matter. If we do this the people of Thedas cannot say we are going against their wishes. And then what will Teagan and the Starkhaven prince have to throw at us? Nothing." She marks down her vote.

"Unless Teagan is ready to band with Orlais to stop the Inquisition, he doesn't have the numbers to stop us." Leliana looks to Cassandra. "But I worry that this nuisance will turn into another, and then another if we don't put a stop to it. We have a real enemy out there. We need to focus on him, not on this nonsense. They want us to fight this. So I say we give her to Kirkwall." Cassandra's lips thin. "She has her friend Aveline there, yes? Kirkwall is her home. Let her return to it."

"She came here because we demanded it," Cassandra says. "You and I, Leliana. Varric gave her to us so we could stop Corypheus. Now that he's dead, you would have us abandon her to Kirkwall? He died to keep her safe."

Leliana shifts, crossing her arms gently. "I'm sorry, Cassandra. This is Inquisition business. My personal feelings don't matter. Nor should yours."

Cassandra's nose flares. She looks to Cullen. "You know as well as anyone that she was not the one to blame for everything that happened in Kirkwall."

"I do," he says gruffly. "But I worry. We spoke some time ago and…"

They all wait. The Inquisitor regards him. "Go on."

"The templars had their faults, it's true," Cullen doesn't notice how Leliana rolls her eyes. "But she seems to be under the impression that what happened in Kirkwall was a result of Knight-Commander Meredith's methods."

Leliana laughs caustically. "It was. You deny it?"

"Not  _all_  of it." He frowns. "You can't excuse all blood magic because you don't like templars—"

"As you can't excuse the templars abuses merely because you distrust mages—" Leliana snaps back.

"I can't be sure of how sorry she is about what happened at that chantry," Cullen says. He looks around the room angry and then guilty. "I can't be sure and it worries me."

"You're being paranoid," Cassandra tells him dryly.

"Enough," Evelyn lifts a hand to silence the group. "Do you favor her return to Kirkwall, Commander?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's no answer."

"It's all I have."

"It's not enough," Cassandra says.

Josephine looks to the Inquisitor. "What of you, Your Worship? How do you vote?" She asks, even as she scribbles her name down with those in favor of returning her to Kirkwall. There is no reason why she wouldn't agree to do so. The women loathe one another and after Hawke's behavior this morning she can see no reason why Evelyn would choose to keep her in Skyhold.

"I say we return her to Kirkwall," Evelyn says. Josephine nods as does Leliana. Good. The matter is settled and they can focus their attention on other things. Cassandra glowers, her jaw clenched tightly. "However—I would send our Commander and Ambassador with her." Josephine looks up.

"I beg your pardon—?" Cullen asks. "For what purpose, Inquisitor?"

"You had no decision, Commander. So I've made it for you. Ambassador Montilyet. You're well equipped to deal with these idiot heads of state and you, Commander, you had considerable influence over how matters for the Champion played out in Kirkwall. You will escort Hawke back to Kirkwall and you will resolve this matter in a manner I find satisfactory. A squadron of our soldiers will join you in case they decide to be difficult."

"What?" Josephine asks. "You pretend at diplomacy and send soldiers?"

"We are the Inquisition. We do not bow down to the petty demands of pissed off sovereignty. If they mean to pick a fight with us, let them see who they're dealing with. I will  _not_ give them Hawke. We will not submit to them. We follow the will of the Maker and no other."

Josephine shakes her head— Again with this nonsense about the Maker. "But—"

"This is—" Cullen begins— "I'm the Commander. You can't just—"

"Ser Barris and Leliana can fill in for you. This matter is not up for discussion," the Inquisitor says. "You will await instruction and then you will depart for Kirkwall. Dismissed."

She turns on her heel to exit and though Cassandra tries to catch up with her, the Inquisitor only shrugs her away. Cassandra glares before leaving the room. Josephine, Cullen and Leliana remain. Leliana looks a little more alert. She smiles now. "Well, that was more exciting than I thought it would be."

"This is ridiculous," Cullen complains.

"This is why it's important to exercise your right to vote," Josephine says. Now look at the situation they're in.

* * *

Hawke is nowhere to be found. Cassandra only hopes that she hasn't left Skyhold. Frankly, she is surprised the Champion did not force her way into the meeting. Cassandra knows she would have been incapable of keeping away if it was her fate being decided. She is concerned about the conversation Hawke had with Cullen. She hopes that he is being paranoid. The templars have always been that way and those going through lyrium withdrawals are particularly vulnerable.

She does not wish to consider that Hawke is… radical. Not in that way. No. Hawke does not condone the death of Grand Cleric Elthina and the innocent. She knows that. Hawke has said as much. She is inspired by what has come of it, not by the actions taken and the loss of innocent life. But how does she separate those two? Cassandra wishes she knew. She is unsure of what will come of this visit to Kirkwall. Cullen and Josephine are to be her champion but neither bear her any love. Cassandra is frightened of how Hawke will take the news. She will feel as if she's taken prisoner. And if Josephine and Cullen fail to convince the Viscount, what happens then? Do their Inquisition soldiers attack? That only leads them to more problems.

If only Varric were still here. He'd say something charming and talk everyone out of their aggression. Hawke would feel supported. Things remain tense between them. They've spent time together but neither has addressed what was said. Maybe neither of them has a suitable response. They need more than biting commentary and defense mechanisms.

Cassandra makes her way to the Inquisitor's room. She has visited her infrequently and can't remember the last time she personally saw her chambers. She goes now because she needs answers. The danger in Kirkwall was never eradicated. Blood mages, for all she knows, still run rampant, especially now without Templars. There is something in the city that makes mages particularly vulnerable. The lines of the city and the nearly non-existent veil. Will it be particularly vulnerable given the Breach? It is only when she gets to the top step of the Inquisitor's room that she realizes how nervous the notion of going to Kirkwall makes her.

The Inquisitor sits on the settee, taking a whet stone along the edge of her blade, head dipped and hair falling over her face. When did it get that long? Cassandra goes closer and the Inquisitor lifts her head, startled. Cassandra notes the quiet disappointment and swallows the hurt. The Inquisitor gets to her feet and sets the blade to the side. "I'm not used to seeing you in my quarters." She picks up a journal from her bed distractedly and sets it on the nightstand. Is that Andraste's Grace? Leliana has a fondness for that flower. Where did she get that? "I'll admit, I thought of it long ago." She smiles, embarrassed though she doesn't actually look at her as she says the words. Cassandra wonders if she actually fancied her for so long or if it was all some trick of lust. "I'll assume you're here about the meeting and not for adventure." She sits on the bed, planting her hands on her knees.

Adventure? Cassandra wishes she didn't feel her face heating up. She will ignore that. "I still can't decide whether you sided with me or not." Perhaps she only sided with herself.

"I sided with the Inquisition. I'll always side with the Inquisition."

"Always? That seems dangerous. That's how people become entrenched in their opinions. That's how orders like the Templars and Grey Wardens fall."

"We'll be different."

"They thought the same."

"I could return her to Kirkwall without escort, if that's what you'd prefer."

Cassandra gives a small shake of her head and sits opposite of her on the settee. The cut on the Inquisitor's cheek from the Storm Coast has paled but is grooved along her skin, another mark of Cassandra's failure. "Why  _not_  just send her back?"

"I won't allow the Inquisition to be held hostage any time some diplomatic issue comes to a head. We managed to blackmail the Orlesian empire into our service. I'm not bloody afraid of Arl Teagan and this idiot Bran."

"Is that all it is?"

Evelyn stares back at her. "That's all that matters." She gets to her feet and moves to her desk. "I'm sure Leliana has told you of what we gleaned from that crystal? Dumat has a shrine in Orlais. Every time I think we're done with that blasted place we have to go back. Make sure to plan your finery for the journey. I'd hate for us to be out of fashion."

She's taken aback by the levity. "Dumat. Yes. Leliana told me of the shrine. I am not certain we should go."

"It could potentially give us an advantage against Corypheus. Admittedly I'm not thrilled about going into the first Archdemon's shrine. The god of silence sounds particularly damning, doesn't it? Silent, like the grave."

"I have a bad feeling that it will be infested with demons and Venatori. Are you up to it?"

"I'm up to it," she says sharply.

"You're right." She has managed so far hasn't she? "It will not be easy but we will weather it together." She hesitates. "If you do not mind, I have other concerns about Kirkwall." Evelyn gingerly raises an eyebrow. "It is only that… I am not certain if Josephine and Cullen are best suited for this."

"We have agents in Kirkwall. Good people. They'll keep their ear to the ground." She must still look uncertain. Evelyn cocks a smile. "It will be fine. Lady Montilyet lives for this."

"Yet you do not trust her."

"As a lover, you're right. I don't. Not half as far as I can throw her." Oh. So that's what it was that happened between them. Cassandra imagines she'd be upset if her lover also happened to have a betrothed. "But as an ambassador she's more than capable."

"What of Cullen? He's unsure whether to trust Hawke. I'm not sure he's the best option to represent her."

"Cullen will do as he is directed." A pause. "You know we leave at dawn, don't you?"

As will the party to Kirkwall. She sighs inwardly. "Yes. I will be ready."

She gathers several sheets of paper from the desk. "You should probably say goodbye to Hawke before you go. Who knows how long will pass before we see one another again." She grabs a quill and a small inkwell. "And if anyone can convince Hawke that this is what's best, it's you."

Cassandra frowns. She had not expected the Inquisitor to drag her into these political games. "I will not vouch for a plan I don't agree with."

"You don't agree with this plan? What do you suggest?" Cassandra hears her challenge but says nothing. She has no plan. Suggesting they keep her at Skyhold and take no further action is no option. "Then you will do what the Inquisition asks of you, Cassandra. As I have."

She's irritated and Cassandra wonders if she should have pressed the issue. Whatever her reasons, the Inquisitor did not simply abandon Hawke to Kirkwall as the others suggested. It is something but she remains uneasy. She knows what she would like: a reprieve to go to Kirkwall and see Hawke there safely. But she cannot ask to leave her side to do it. It would be wrong. Even now she knows it's only her personal attachment that makes the current situation difficult for her. Her duty is to the Inquisitor and to the Inquisition, not Hawke. "Of course, Your Worship." The Inquisitor's eyebrows dip at the title. "Have I not said it? I miss you. I miss our friendship. But perhaps it is difficult to discern that when all you hear from me is doubt and dissatisfaction. You have succeeded this far without lyrium. That is to be commended. And you have saved me and the Inquisition time and time again. All this time later and I have not thanked you."

"You always have been a bit of a sourpuss."

"You're one to talk."

"If you want to thank me, you can start with a kiss." Cassandra stares at her for she doesn't know how long, until her cheeks feel as if the heat of all the suns have settled upon them. She allows herself to imagine it for only a moment. How would the Inquisitor differ from Hawke? But the thought is preposterous. Eventually the Inquisitor smiles and continues to arrange small items inside her satchel. "It was a joke."

"I'm not so sure it was. In any case, you always say that when things do not go your way."

She laughs softly, if not tiredly. "For better or for worse, I've escaped your charms." For better or for worse? Well. Cassandra supposes she should be happy about that. Yet, the Inquisitor is preoccupied. She looks back at her before Cassandra can question her further. "I have to finish preparing. I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning."

And just like that she's been dismissed.

* * *

Hawke has been waiting in Cassandra's room for what seems like hours before she returns. Hawke takes in her surprise and gets to her feet. Her satchel and staff sit to the side. It's all she's taking. She's never needed material things. She is accustomed to a life on the run. She is accustomed to starting over.

Cassandra closes the door. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Hawke frowns, unsure of what there is to say. She's relatively sure this is goodbye and she doesn't like those. They come too abruptly. And she's always left with regrets. She remembers Anders' blood on her hands. The way he told her it was okay and then fell over to empty. She picks up her belongings. "I tried to go to the meeting. Your ambassador and Inquisitor wouldn't let me enter."

"I didn't know." She comes closer and notices her items. "You're not thinking of leaving. You can't."

"I'm not going back to Kirkwall to let Bran, of all people, cast judgment on me. It's what your lot chose, isn't it? To send me back? Why else bar me entry?" Cassandra opens her mouth to speak but Hawke hurries onward. "I'll bet the Inquisitor was thrilled to be rid of me."

"Will you shut up and let me speak?" Hawke swallows her next words and stares at her expectantly. Cassandra is at a loss. "I need a moment. I didn't think you'd actually listen." Hawke waits. "It's true, the Advisors decided returning you to Kirkwall was the best course of action. However," she says sharply before Hawke can interrupt, "it is not the Inquisitor's intention to give you up. She is sending Josephine and Cullen with you to speak on your behalf."

Josephine and Cullen? Grand. She's certain they'll advocate diligently for her. "That's the plan?"

"Yes. And before you continue to complain, know that this was not a unanimous decision. Certainly it is easier to simply give you to Kirkwall for judgment. There are many who blame you for the present circumstances."

"Are you amongst them?"

She sighs. "We've discussed this." She sits on the bed, looking up at her. "That may have been what I thought in the beginning but no longer. You seem to think I distrust you. We may not agree on  _everything_  but you give me no cause for alarm. Cullen did mention you'd spoken and something you said worried him."

She doesn't need to ask what conversation she refers to. They've only had the one and there was nothing about it that didn't piss her off. "Everything a mage says worries him."

"I do not believe that. Whatever he was, he is no longer. He is no longer a templar and he no longer ingests lyrium. You, however, remain unchanged. The smart ass Champion of Kirkwall. You could do to be more appreciative."

Hawke drops her satchel and staff, sitting beside her. "Could I?"

"You could stand to lose your tone." She glowers only an instant before she can't manage the energy for it. "Let's not fight. It shouldn't need to be said, but I do not doubt that you are a good person. But Cullen— he is uncertain of how sorry you are about the Grand Cleric's death."

"I'm uncertain of how sorry he is about trying to annul a Circle of mages."

"Hawke."

"No. You don't get to scold me. That woman did nothing." She says sharply. Cassandra looks disappointed. "Why is it that  _I'm_  the one who has to explain my every thought and opinion and action? If the Seekers had been there doing what they were intended to, we wouldn't be having this conversation. And yet, at every turn, I do not ask you how you feel about your oversight. Nor does anyone ever seem to remember that Meredith and her templars were all mad. Thedas is not raging about the templars." She stands again, agitated. "I don't want to return to Kirkwall. Frankly, I don't trust Knight-Captain Cullen and 'I'm-pissed-about-my-current-relationship-status' Montilyet to have my back."

"What does that have to do with anything?" she asks bewildered. "I know that the situation is not ideal. The Inquisitor does not wish for your standing here to be used as a political point for the opposition."

"So she's using me as what—a bargaining chip? To show our enemies that the Inquisition is not to be messed with?"

"What do you want?" Cassandra shouts. "Do you want her to give you up? Do you want to leave here to wander Thedas on your own? You are not the Inquisitor, Hawke. The world knows what you look like. There are many who revere you, yes, but those are the rebel mages. No one you ought to be aligning yourself with. The Inquisition can protect you."

"I don't need protection."

"Yes, you do."

"Why are you so angry?"

"Because I am trying—we are trying to keep you safe and you insist on being difficult. The Inquisitor is trying to help you and you look for reasons to complain. You're ungrateful."

"Am I no longer allowed free will? Am I supposed be to grateful to be trapped and offered your protection? You sound like the bloody templars." Cassandra grits her jaw, shaking her head in disgust. Hawke bites her tongue and lowers her head, her hands clenched tightly. Cassandra gets to her feet. Hawke takes her hand. If they're going to go their separate ways she doesn't want for it to be like this. "I don't know that I can go back there. Kirkwall is haunted. I want nothing more of it. Don't you understand? I'm afraid. It's more than the templars, it's…" Varric's gone. Her mother. Anders. Cassandra's fingers tighten around hers. "Can't you come with me?"

But from the hurt on her face, Hawke already knows the answer is no.

* * *

The Inquisitor gazes out the window. Josephine lingers at the door of her office and observes her. The setting sun makes her hair look like fire. For months she's breezed past the room. Josephine watches her until she turns and looks directly at her. Her gaze ensnares her as well as any trap. Josephine can't swallow. She takes the step down and approaches. "Your Worship."

"Ambassador. I hoped you might spare a moment to discuss Kirkwall." Josephine nods and takes her seat, placing her hands on the desk to steady herself. Evelyn sits opposite of her, fingers curling along the armrest of the chair before she stills them. "I know it might seem foolish to entertain the idea of safeguarding Hawke but I consider it a matter of great importance. We can't back down the first time we're asked to. We can't back down to a man who has yet to be king and a Viscount of a nothing city-state. I won't risk the Inquisition appearing weak."

Perhaps the Inquisitor has been spending too much time with Leliana. "I worry that if we go too far on the offensive we appear to be all bluster."

"If we give Hawke to Kirkwall, we look as if we have something to hide. Something to atone for." Yes. The deaths of King Alistair and Queen Anora. "I won't allow it."

"Your Worship, I may be ambassador—an exceptionally talented ambassador," she can't help a smile at the Inquisitor's gentle smirk, "but there are some situations that cannot be mediated. I believe this is a test. Whatever you hope to gain—I fear that even sending agents to represent both Hawke and the Inquisition is an admission of fault for those who seek to discredit us. And I'm not sure that sending Cullen with the party is wise. It will remind the Viscount and Prince Vael that he too played a part in Elthina's death. He is the Commander of our forces."

"He could have annulled the Circle himself and they wouldn't blame him. They never blame the templars," the last she says to herself. Her eyes are clouded in thought. "I've decided to send Vivienne along."

"Oh?" First Cullen, now Vivienne."Do you not think me capable?"

"Try to get over yourself, Ambassador. They want to make a mockery of us. This prince and Viscount can't claim that the Inquisition supports rebel mages when it stands with the templars and the most notorious pro-Circle mage in Thedas."

So Vivienne is to be used as a prop then. That is… almost amusing. Now all that remains is to listen to Vivienne prattle on about her perceived failures. "Is it your opinion, or intention, that the Inquisition be anti-mage? Anti-magic?" Leliana will certainly have something to say about that.

"Not necessarily. But we don't have to advertise it." Hm. So she's learning. "In any case, I want you to take lead in this matter. Persuade this Viscount and the Prince of Starkhaven that their interests are better served in allying with us."

"If you seek to make allies, why are Cullen, Vivienne and a battalion of soldiers joining me?"

"They're there for support in case things go south. If you're unable to persuade them, we'll find another way to resolve it."

"Through what means? The more permanent sort you and Leliana favor?"

"Just do your job, Ambassador. I'd be happy to make other considerations a moot point." She gets to her feet. Josephine mirrors the action. She damns her memories, the way that flesh can recall sensation when the ghosts that haunt the room are stirred. The Inquisitor looks at her as if she's overstepped her boundaries. Can she read her thoughts? Does she condemn her for rising with her as if they were equals? "Is there something further?"

"Nothing you want to hear, Your Worship."

Josephine wishes for reassurances. Instead, the Inquisitor nods and leaves her.

* * *

"There you are."

Leliana wanders further into the vault library. She hasn't seen it in some time and it's significantly cleaner than the last she visited. Despite the relative cold of the space, the candelabras and torches create a soothing atmosphere. So many books, dangerous if a fire spread but she doubts the Inquisitor would be so reckless with her treasures.

The Inquisitor begins to rise but Leliana waves her away. She saunters closer and sits on the edge of the mammoth desk, sharing the space with the monstrous book perched atop of it. Leliana suspects it weighs more than she does. She has always been fascinated by the history of spaces, ruminating on their untold stories. Some of that curiosity has died in recent years but Skyhold is mysterious enough to get her imagination going again. "Is this your new hiding spot?"

"How well have I hidden if I've already been discovered?"

Leliana smiles and notices that Evelyn has her book of stories, fingers carefully holding the pages open. Noticing, Evelyn lets the book close. "I'm better at finding things than most." Better than Cassandra, anyway. She lets her legs swing gingerly and watches the light dance along the spines of the books. Darkness is lodged at the end of the hall, but the light that surrounds them keeps the shadows at bay. "I thought you'd be in bed."

"So why not find me there?"

A brief silence passes, interrupted only by the flickering of the candles and the wind that stirs them. "Perhaps I'm not so clever as I imagine."

"I doubt that."

Leliana runs her tongue over her lower lip, thoughtfully. "You surprised everyone at the meeting today. Myself included. I still think we should leave her. Hawke is more trouble than she's worth. She is not worth reallocating our resources."

"Are you disappointed?"

Is she? "I was under the impression that you were no longer a fan." Where is the line between jealousy and resentment drawn?

"Don't get me wrong. She's irritating. But Varric died for the Inquisition and for her. And…" she hesitates, looking instead at her fingers on the desk. "She's important to Cassandra. She stayed here for us. She helped me in Halamshiral. So as much as I'd love to toss her out on her ass, she's one of us now. And we protect our own."

That's… surprisingly soft of her. Is it the absence of lyrium that drives her emotionally? Leliana remembers her time in Kirkwall years ago. Divine Justinia sent her to persuade Hawke to encourage Grand Cleric Elthina to leave. They'd all had a terrible feeling that something bad was coming. Hawke did try. That was something. But it wasn't enough. "So what you said at the meeting…"

"Oh, I meant it. And it sounded better than 'but she's Cassandra's girlfriend." Leliana laughs. Is that what they are? Have they progressed so far along already? "I'm glad you found me."

"You are?" The Inquisitor looks sorry to have said it, as if the words were sand that slipped through her fingers. "I'm not so sure I am. Even the fire isn't enough to keep warm." Yet it burns and it burns brightly.

"Is it hard for you, too?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Is that a letter you have?"

Ah, yes, how could she have forgotten? She received it only minutes ago, the paper stained with blood. For a moment she holds it to her lips, focusing on the sensation of the sharp creases against the pulp of her mouth. The smell of iron comes off it. Charter retrieved the letter for her.  _Recovered unread, as requested._   _Please forgive the bloodstains._  Many Venatori died to intercept it. Fortunately, the Inquisition's agents are better than Corypheus'. But it's a sign. This is who these Venatori are. Dying for letters. Dedicated. Seeking her weaknesses to destroy her and through her, the Inquisition. "A letter, yes." A beat. "But it's more than that."

"I sense a story."

Leliana smiles grimly. "Not one I'm willing to tell." Evelyn shuts the journal. "Now and then I dwell on the things I've seen. Every now and then, I'm foolish enough to get sentimental."

"What's wrong with being sentimental?"

Leliana lifts the letter. "Long ago, I trusted the wrong person and others suffered because of it. I've been thinking of that time and I wrote someone that I was once fortunate enough to consider a friend. I was seeking answers. It was unfair to him and it was unfair to the Inquisition. I had the sense to ask for the letter to be recovered before any damage could be done. Many Venatori died trying to get this to Corypheus."

"I don't see how a letter to a friend could harm us."

"Ah. Perhaps you're not fully aware of my reputation. I am Sister Nightingale. The Left Hand of the Divine. A participant in ending the fifth Blight and now the spymaster of the Inquisition."

"It turns out I knew all of that. I'm blonde, not stupid. Not always," she adds quickly. "But if it was your aim to take the time to impress me with all your accomplishments, consider it done. I'm flattered."

Is she flirting with her? Leliana resists the urge to engage in a game of banter with her. "Then it's possible you don't know that I am feared as someone not to be trifled with. Expressing personal feelings… doubt—it can be perceived as weakness. That's why this letter was so dangerous. Perhaps you're angry I never told you. I can't explain why I wrote it. You were away when I set quill to paper." Was she looking for absolution? "What I do know is that I was selfish and it nearly cost us. I'm sorry."

"I'm not sure what you're apologizing for. Writing a letter?"

"We have our enemies, Inquisitor. You mustn't be naïve. They will take what we hold sacred to strike at us."

The Inquisitor stands. "So what do you propose? That we cherish nothing? Care for nothing?" Leliana has no answer. "That's not our way. That's not the Maker's way."

"This is war, Inquisitor. All our pretty ideals? We put them aside in times like these. The Maker understands. Honor, morals— they mean nothing when you're rotting in a grave." So much given and for what? How will He repay the Inquisitor's devotion? Even now Leliana is unsure of whether she should fall at His feet or reject Him completely. What will make her a better spymaster? What will bring them success?

The Inquisitor looks as if she's been scolded. She has yet to learn how cruel He can be. "We both want to stop Corypheus. But we need something to keep us going. A list of those lost will keep us angry and focused but it won't inspire anybody."

"You're right. You're the Inquisitor, no? The symbol of the Inquisition. While we have no Divine, you are the one that sets the course in motion for the world. You can tell the world a story of how the Maker has saved Thedas and I can continue as I have, doing what must be done. We balance each other, yes? The light and the dark."

"What was in that letter?"

"What?"

"You seem upset and the letter is bloodied. So what was in the letter?"

"Are you commanding me to share it with you? We swore that we would be honest but it doesn't mean you're given free reign to know everything about me." The Inquisitor looks away embarrassed. Leliana sighs. "Forgive me, Inquisitor. You have caught me on a sensitive night."

"I'd hate to catch you on an insensitive one." She circles the desk to stand next to her. "I know you're devoted to the Inquisition. I know that without absolutes. Knowledge is power and you know everything there is to know about me. I go back and forth on whether I hate that or not."

"It's my job."

"Is that all I am to you? Work?" Leliana doesn't answer. "I won't pretend we stand on even ground. When I said I would shoulder your burden, I meant it. When I said we should do whatever it takes…"

"Don't tell me you didn't mean it." She thought the Inquisitor was through faltering.

"I didn't think it through. You're not a mindless weapon. I won't watch you bury your humanity for the Inquisition."

"My humanity is not so precious. If it saves lives, can you argue that it's not worth it?" The Inquisitor looks guilty. "You've taken lives to save others. We barter. And after a time, the hurt lessens. You know this, yes? I am not so fragile, Inquisitor. Don't worry about me."

"I can't help it." For moments she works at the words she means to say. When she speaks it's haltingly. "There's a light inside of you. I don't want it to go away. You said you would protect me. Let me protect you."

Oh. "You said to me that you weren't romantic. But here you are." She shifts to face her. "You can't protect us both. You have to choose: me or the Inquisition. In your heart, you know the right choice. You must know." Leliana takes a breath and curses herself. What excuse had she for seeking out the Inquisitor so late in the night? Was she not the one who warned they must not be alone together? And yet she finds herself walking into the situation over and over again. She always did like playing with fire. Will she ever tire of getting burned? She slides off the desk and steps back when their bodies graze. "I suppose we should talk about this. It's safer that way, I think. We've been dancing around it since Halamshiral. What we wanted. What we implied. What might have happened had we not been interrupted on that balcony." Had Josephine not come in talking of broken engagements.

The Inquisitor keeps her eyes on Leliana's but remains quiet.

"I would be lying if I said I hadn't given it any thought. We looked lovely that night and we were looking for means to celebrate. Perhaps if it had happened then that's all it would have been. One night. Clean. Taking our pleasures. But things have shifted, yes? At least— … it feels as if they have shifted. I find myself thinking of you. In a way that is not entirely professional." In a way she hasn't thought of anyone in years. "I look forward to your company. And—I wonder whether you are sleeping well—or safe. I worry about whether you're happy." The Inquisitor's face softens. "Have you felt a change as well? Or am I standing here before you, embarrassing myself?"

"Much  _has_  changed recently. Including…" she falters. "I don't know how it happened. I'm sorry."

Then she admits it. Is it a relief? She doesn't know. It pleases her when it should not. She's selfish. "Listen to us, sorry for what we should be grateful for. Curious." Leliana wonders how she can be curious. As curious as she can be about a woman whose history she's pored over countless times. But that's paper. Facts. There are different ways to get to know a person. Other measures. "We are cautious because we have suffered loss. You are going through difficulties. Saying these words to you now…" she considers. "It feels as if I'm taking advantage."

"You're not taking advantage."

"You may not think so. But I know how we can feel indebted to those who support us when we are at our lowest. I know how we can feel that we owe them everything. But it's not like that between us. You owe me nothing. I want you to know that I'm here for you. I will continue to be here for you, if you will have me. But if you're looking for more— I'm not sure I can promise you more than a night. More than my body." The Inquisitor breaks their eye-contact. Is she embarrassed? Disappointed? Her body. That's easy. That's nothing. "Not because you are unworthy but… because I'm uncertain whether I can trust."

"You don't trust me?"

"My trust for you is not in question." But the Maker? Herself? That is another matter altogether. "But there are other things I do question. And while I question—while I doubt… I fear that I cannot give you what you deserve."

"Is your body all you wish to give to me?" Leliana is silent. "Is this about Josephine?"

It's the first time the Inquisitor has said her name in months and Leliana sees how it hard it is for her to even speak it. "No. Josephine has no relevance in this. We are both consenting adults. What is between us is our business." The Inquisitor's eyes flicker, shift. "A spymaster cannot be sentimental. A spymaster cannot be soft. Any time I've let down my guard, I've put the Inquisition at risk. If I allow myself to be taken by this…"

"Am I so dangerous?"

Yes. Of course. "Perhaps it should have gone unsaid. But we should be honest. Even when it disappoints us." Both of them. Does she expect the Inquisitor to argue? To make sweeping statements? Perhaps. The only change is the dip of her chin. A sadness she fights to bury. A quiver of her lower lip and then stillness. "Perhaps now that it's been spoken… it will remove this spell that has come between us."

The Inquisitor scoffs softly. "That's not how spells are undone." Such fire in her eyes. Her lips move silently. Does she breathe a prayer? Does she count to regain her calm? Or is it magic she utters? "Words cast spells more often than not."

Is she being teased? She cannot read the Inquisitor's tone. She is grateful she doesn't look at her now. "You're a templar." Or was. "I suppose you would know."

A stiff nod. "Thank you for telling me. I'd wondered if I was imagining things." She smiles, laughs, false. She turns her attention back to the desk and grabs the journal Leliana gave her. "But it's late and I've taken enough of your time. Do you want this back?"

The shift in conversation is abrupt. Isn't this what she wanted? So why does it feel as if their conversation has ended too soon? Leliana feels a sting. "No, it's yours. My writing is legible, I hope?"

"Very. Not like my awful scrawl, is it?" She bites her lip, narrows her eyes, distracted. "They're lovely. The stories and…" She considers. "I can hear your voice in the telling. Your rhythms and…it's comforting. I suppose I shouldn't say things like that."

Leliana crosses her arms, gripping her shoulders lightly. She cannot reach out to her now. She would undo everything she's just spoken. "How you tell a story is often as important as the story itself. I'm happy if they've brought you some measure of comfort."

"You've given me more than most. You'll not hear me complain." She blinks, as if just waking from a fugue. Leliana lets herself slip back into the comfort of the cold. "Well then, Spymaster. I'll leave Skyhold in your care. Perhaps we need some time to clear our heads. Perhaps a break is exactly what we need."

It would be easy to have her here; a parting gift before her trip to the Shrine of Dumat. How tightly would the Inquisitor's hand grip her shoulder? Her hair? Would she smile? Would she want her again? "Perhaps, Inquisitor." Evelyn moves past her, Leliana shifting so they don't brush one another. Her throat is tight, her mouth is dry. The letter has crumpled in her hand. She walks to a torch and lifts it up, letting the fire consume it, mesmerized as the paper is swallowed, until she holds only ashes and then, nothing.


	27. Shackles

The parties have gathered at the gates, horses to the left, carriages to the right. Josephine draws her cloak over her head. As if it were not bad enough to get up at the crack of dawn, they have a heavy downpour to contend with. Vivienne is already inside a carriage, directing a handful of servants carrying trunks full of clothing. Josephine wonders if she's packed enough. Truth be told she did not gather her finest items. They are going to Kirkwall, after all.

She pulls on her heavy suitcase, taking a long stride before the weight pulls her arm down again. Why did she not think to have one of the guards assist her? Plenty would be more than happy to aid her. She summons her strength, fearful that the suitcase will dip into the mud at any second. The suitcase is scooped from her hand. Blackwall falls in line next to her. His presence is a surprise. Josephine is momentarily flustered. Has his face reddened?

"Sorry, about that," he says. "I suppose I should have asked. I'd set it down but…" he looks at the mud everywhere.

"Don't you dare." Josephine tests her fingers, trying to get feeling back into them. There are some women who would spurn his offer of help but she is not one of them. It's one of her finer pieces of luggage and she'd hate to see it ruined. She looks at him. His hair is combed back from his face. He smells of soap. They have not had the occasion to meet in private and perhaps she should be grateful. She is engaged… but it's possible things between herself and Evelyn will resolve themselves. She'll change her mind about the duel and… She stood up for her against Hawke, didn't she? That's more than she expected. With time she'll be allowed to call her by her name again. If not… then her life will follow the intended path. She and Otranto will have attractive, healthy children and a fine material life. That is more than enough to be grateful for. "You're up early, Ser Blackwall. I did not know you were going with the Inquisitor's party."

"I'm uh—oh." Three words. Three different expressions. "I imagined—incorrectly it would seem— that you had something to do with this? The Inquisitor said I was to help escort Hawke to Kirkwall. Something about Grey Wardens being intimidating." Evelyn said that? Then again, she distrusts the order, doesn't she? She fears them. But the Inquisitor knows her history with the man. She's seen them spend time together. Perhaps her friendly gesture was just that. How disappointing. "So what do you think?" he asks.

"Pardon?"

"Am I intimidating enough to keep things in order?"

"Ah, I am no darkspawn." Though perhaps the Inquisitor does not share her opinion. "You do not intimidate me." Yet she worries. Why send a Grey Warden to Kirkwall—unless the Inquisitor and Leliana are anticipating trouble? Perhaps Leliana only seeks to meddle.

"I'm not sure how to take that." His eyes rove their surroundings as if searching for something to say. "And I see that Madame De Fer will be joining us." His dissatisfaction is evident. Vivienne spots them at the same time and Josephine sees her eyes narrow. "I can't say I'd ever planned on returning to Kirkwall but I suppose I should be grateful for a change of scenery. And if the two of us should happen to cross paths you won't hear me complaining."

Is she foolish to think she can right things with Evelyn? Would it be wrong to become closer to Blackwall? To stray is subtlety encouraged within noble culture, as long as one is discreet. The Inquisition could continue for a long time. And yet, it does not fully sit right with her. She had such romantic aspirations and they've been taken from her. The rain continues to pour and she's cold. "I can think of no finer company for the long journey." His face brightens and she smiles, walking with him to the carriage and watching him lug her suitcase aboard. Cullen comes around the corner, wiping his eyes, his blond hair curling in different directions. He must not have had the necessary time to go through his morning grooming ritual. What must he be experiencing to be returning to Kirkwall? She is not excited to return with Hawke. The apostate is a loose cannon and not apt to play along when diplomacy is at stake.

"Josephine, my dear," Vivienne calls out. She's popped open the carriage door. "Do get away from the help and come join me. I will be apoplectic if I'm stranded with the so-called Champion or that man for the remainder of the journey." Her cheeks burn. "Hurry, the carriage is getting soaked."

Josephine exchanges looks with Blackwell, mouthing her apologies and moving to join her. She steels herself. Perhaps she should consider the trip with Madame Vivienne to be practice for the nest of vipers that no doubt awaits her in Kirkwall. She steps into the carriage, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Hawke listens to the rain tapping along the ceiling and windows of the carriage.

She slept in scattered fragments, her dreams as zig zagged as Kirkwall's alleyways. A heavy weight has settled over her, holding so long that she's numb. She's not sure when they'll leave for Kirkwall but the stony faced Inquisition guards sitting opposite of her have provided no answers. At least the Inquisitor didn't send her with templars. She tells herself to be grateful for small mercies. She wonders if she'll leave the city alive or if she'll be kept in chains. Fitting, for Kirkwall. "How long will we sit here? If we were going to wait this long I could have bloody slept in."

As if on cue, the horses whinny and the carriage gets off to a start. Hawke leans her head against the cool window, sighing softly and watching her breath fog the glass. Outside she sees the Inquisitor, watching the carriage go by. She'd take the first Archdemon's shrine to Kirkwall at this rate. She loved that shitty city. She bled for it and lost just about everything to it. Why did she bother? She should have stopped after the expedition, after her mother died. There were so many opportunities to just do  _nothing_ , to stay out of it and yet, she persisted. What compelled her?

The carriage lurches to a halt, the driver uttering a small shout. Words blur and then the door to the carriage is pulled open. Cassandra stands in the rain, water dripping down her face and armor, making her hair fall in spikes over her forehead. "Seeker Pentaghast," one of the guard's says. Hawke sits up. What's Cassandra doing here? Is this one final goodbye? She can't help but think of their carriage ride to the inn at Halamshiral. Maybe she should have followed the natural course of events that evening. They seemed closer and farther away that night. Cassandra apologized to her yesterday.  _I am sorry I am unable to help you. Watch over yourself in Kirkwall. Please._

"You may go," Cassandra says to the men. They exchange looks. "You will go with the battalion headed to Kirkwall. I will resume your duties from here." They mutter, pushing off the seats, nodding at Hawke and exiting the carriage. Cassandra steps inside and the soldiers slam the door shut behind her. "If it's not snow it's rain. I am getting tired of the weather here."

"Right. The weather." Hawke says. The carriage starts up again and her muscles tighten. Cassandra's brow is furrowed in thought. "You said you couldn't join me in Kirkwall." She did say that. The knowledge was enough to wound Hawke but hearing her say the words put the matter to rest. Sometimes the vocalization of what's known is enough to take the air out of your lungs.

"I did. However, the Inquisitor felt differently." The Inquisitor? "She asked that I join you and help oversee matters. She said I'm a neutral party." Her brow knots further. "She is to go to the Shrine of Dumat. Who knows what dangers lie there."

Hawke bites her tongue. Every time she thinks she has the Inquisitor figured out she does something stupid and thoughtful. "Why not go with her? I'm a big girl."

"I was ordered. I had no choice."

Hawke crosses her arms, trying not to hold too tight to them. The carriage is cold. Once more she leans into the wall and to the glass window. "Hopefully it won't be too long." She hadn't thought her stomach could clench any tighter. She looks for her breath wisping in the air but it doesn't. She stares at the puddle of water and mud at Cassandra's feet and is no longer sure whether she'd take anyone over the Inquisition soldiers. "What are you overseeing, exactly?"

"Everything. Everyone."

"Including me?" There's silence. "You can be objective like that? Without cheating?"

"I can try." Hawke supposes she shouldn't take that personally. She turns her attention to the outside again, seeing the drab and cheerful faces of those that have taken refuge with the Inquisition, than the gates and then the sprawling world of hills and mountains and turbulent skies. "Is that one of your talents? Being objective?"

Hawke shakes her head. No. She has always been subjective to a fault. "All that matters is the ones I love. That comes first. Before morals. Before anything."

Cassandra frowns. "Why must you say things like that?"

"What have I said that's so wrong?"

Cassandra pushes a hand through her hair, sweeping it back and Hawke stares at the sharp cheekbones and jaw, the unforgiving lines of her armor and thinks of how deceptive it is. "You're an apostate. And you're being summoned to Kirkwall for what some consider heretical acts. You should be more careful of the language you use."

"I've spent my entire life being careful with what I say. I am, as you say, an apostate. I can never be too careful. The magic in my veins is charge enough."

"The world is not out to get you, Hawke."

"No? I'm being brought to Kirkwall on demands of a prince, an Arl, a Viscount and supposedly the people of Kirkwall. Someone's out to get me."

They say nothing for minutes and Hawke considers leaving. It would have been easy with the Inquisition soldiers. One blast of force magic and she'd be free but Cassandra is different. Cassandra can fight back. She's no templar but what else could she do to her to get her under control? She and Anders always spoke derisively of templar and mage games. Is involving herself with a seeker any different?

"Why did you continue to help Kirkwall?"

They're talking again? "I don't know. Apostate guilt?" That's driven her more than bloody anything. "I was used to working for every little bit I had. I was free labor to Athenril for a year. And terrible things kept happening." Her father. Bethany. Losing Carver to the Grey Wardens. Losing her mother. "I couldn't sit still and dwell over them. Anyway, Varric made great fun of it. We'd adventure and return to the Hanged Man, sand and blood everywhere and have a pint. Everything in Kirkwall was miserable, but I can't remember when I last laughed so hard and smiled so much. I was miserable. I was happy. I wanted to change the world."

"You have."

She laughs. "This wasn't the way I planned."

* * *

"Inquisitor!"

Evelyn grips the reins of the horse until he slows and stops. She turns. Leliana, astride a white horse Evelyn doesn't recall seeing before. Her dark garb suits the weather, the dour sky and heavy rain. Evelyn strokes her horse's head. He's a charcoal steed, pretty. She hasn't named him yet.

She's lost three horses since the Inquisition started and she's starting to think that leaving the horse unnamed might keep her heart safer. She always cries about the horses, which she supposes is a bit stupid given everything else that's going on. It seems unfair to her how their enemies always target the horses first, the horses who are only there to make sure they don't get overly fatigued on the journey.

The spymaster approaches and Evelyn's heartbeat accelerates. Her fingers tighten further around the reins. She tries not to think of their conversation the night prior, despite how it kept her up for the majority of the night. The more she tells herself not to think about it the more it fills her thoughts. "Spymaster. Cleared your head yet?"

Leliana frowns, unamused. That's answer enough. "I saw Cassandra get into Hawke's carriage headed to Kirkwall." Oh. Right. That. Yes. Cassandra hadn't asked but Evelyn knew she'd wanted to. She thinks of how she would have felt if Leliana, Dorian or even Josephine had to be transported to a foreign city to face judgment. She'd want to go with them. She'd want them to have support. Someone invested in the matter. In any case, Cassandra doesn't think of things politically. Her history isn't entrenched in the city. She won't be defensive or look to cast blame. No matter what she feels about Hawke, she'll do the right thing. She hopes so. "Did you know about this?"

"Of course I knew about it. You're not the only one who keeps up with what happens in Skyhold." She flicks the reins to the horse, feeling anxious. The horse begins a steady pace, moving around Leliana's horse. The spymaster's hood shifts as she watches her. "Don't be angry at Cassandra. It was my order."

Leliana grabs the reins of Evelyn's horse, stopping its movements. "She shouldn't have followed it."

"You'd prefer she question me?"

"In this instance? Yes. You come before Hawke or her petty desires. You come before Kirkwall." Her volume only ticks upward but Evelyn knows it for what it is: a reprimand. They stare at each other and Evelyn sees that mean looks the spymaster gets on her face every now. But there's something more that's unrecognizable, fraying at the edges.

"It was my decision. This is about more than Hawke or Kirkwall. I'm trying to stop something greater than us. Something that could spiral out of control if we don't get it in order."

"You speak to me about political ramifications?" Her lip curls. "Do you forget I was the Left Hand of the Divine?"

"How could I forget when you never stop reminding me?"

"If you die, we'll never have time to worry about the political ramifications because the Inquisition and all of Thedas will be gone. You had no right to send her away to Kirkwall. You should have consulted me."

"Why?" Leliana frowns. She's on the defensive. She'd grown warm with Leliana's approach and now goes warmer still. "We parted last night on…" How does she talk about this? Does she talk about it? She's not used to anything but screws with the nobility, laughing at the husbands, a sort of short lived sexual banter. But honest conversations have been rare and even with Josephine it was like pulling teeth. Does Leliana share anything in common with her escapades or would she find it sickening? "I wasn't anticipating we'd speak again until I returned."

"So you thought you'd sneak this past me? You realize how foolish it is to think you could manage such a thing, yes?"

Evelyn flushes, biting the inside of her lip. "I… suppose I hadn't thought it out that far ahead." It's early, though she should have known Leliana would be up. She made the decision after speaking to Cassandra the morning of the meeting. She intended to tell Leliana about it and then didn't. She knew what her response would be. "I don't need to take Cassandra everywhere. She's not my keeper. She's needed in Kirkwall. I'm capable."

"We both know you're not at your best, Inquisitor."

Evelyn flushes further, lowering her head enough to see that Leliana still grips the reins. "I could take lyrium again if you're so worried about it." That was the wrong thing to say. Leliana lets go of the reins. Evelyn's heart slams into her chest. Even saying the word: lyrium, makes her hungry for it. Does she want an excuse to drink it? Or is she realizing, deep down, that she might have to take it up again before this is all over? For the Inquisition. For Thedas. The thought makes giddy and sick. "I just mean… You mentioned…" She utters a nervous shaky laugh. "I don't want you to worry. I'll be with Dorian and Sera. Dorian wants to bring The Iron Bull." She knows the others call him 'Bull' but she's not so familiar with the qunari and frankly, she doesn't like him. She's not sure about having a Ben-Hassrath around. Leliana assured her, long ago and quite dismissively, that the intel was good and to leave it be.  _We won't lose out on critical intelligence because of your biases._

"You don't like him."

"I didn't like you. I came around." And the reverse is true, isn't it? She considers that Leliana never answered her question, whether all she wanted to give her was her body. She tries not to dwell on it. "And I'm not so bad, am I? When I'm not mucking everything up and thinking I can sneak secrets past you."

"You're pretty, not bright." A slight thinning of her lips. "Just let me stay angry at you." She sighs and Evelyn finds herself smiling a little, despite the rain. "Don't smile. I'm not happy." The smile falters. "We're so far into this and you've built no kind of relationship with him. You're Andrastian… I won't say to a fault but the Iron Bull, he feels as strongly about the Qun. Will you behave yourselves and focus on what's important?"

She doesn't intend on engaging the man at all. "We'll go to the Shrine and do what must be done." Leliana still appears unsatisfied. "I don't know what my alternative is. Sera and Dorian like him well enough." She shrugs, not knowing why. "Who am I going to take? Solas? Cole?" They bother her. Everyone bothers her. Is she close minded?

"Cole's not so bad."

"No."

Leliana sighs again. "I don't like this. You gave me your reasons for sending Cassandra away but I wonder if you're being honest with me. I wonder if you're soft."

"I'm not soft." A beat. "And if I were, would that be so wrong?"

"I haven't decided."

"All that matters is that the Maker is with me." Something happens to Leliana's eyes when she says the words. The light in them changes, light and dark, a storm of thoughts. "Don't you believe in the Maker?" She must. She  _must. "_ You've said that He would protect me."

"I believe in the Maker." She sounds pained. "I want you to be careful."

"I will." They stare at one another helplessly before looking away.

"I'll take care of Skyhold for you," Leliana says.

Evelyn can't think of a suitable verbal response, only knows that she wants to reach for her as desperately as she wants to reach for lyrium, that she feels that pain as acutely as she does for the draught. She tightens her hands on the reins and gallops in the opposite direction. Leliana wanted to break the spell. When the Void will that happen?

* * *

Kirkwall is in ruins.

Buildings are gutted. Stone and wooden beams spill out of walls and doors like innards. Josephine and the others arrived ahead of them. Cassandra looks around, tallying the differences from the last time she was in the city searching for the Champion.

Hawke steps out into Kirkwall as if she's walked into another world. She lifts a hand, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. Thick black smokes spirals into the sky from the foundries. Hawke takes a deep breath, looking unsettled.

"Are you all right?" Cassandra asks. Hawke nods and they walk. They recognize her. Men and women elbow each other, nod pointedly in their direction. Hawke moves as if she hasn't noticed them. Maybe it's a relic from her time here years ago and everyone wanted her attention. "I do not know if Josephine and the others have gone to the inn. Should we go there or head straight to the Viscount?"

"I'd like to see my home, if that's all right."

Cassandra does not know why she asks for permission. She looks at the charred cobblestones and walls stained red. "If you'd like. But we shouldn't take too long."

"I want to see my mother's room. I wonder if Bodahn and Sandal are still there. Or Orana."

"The slave girl?" She remembers that from Varric's tale. The elf was found in some cave, trying to escape from one of her Magisters. From one mage to another and yet, Hawke took her in, gave her work, gave her coin.

"She's not a slave anymore." Hawke looks at her worriedly. "But she was never very good at taking care of herself. She needed instruction for just about everything. How does a girl like that manage on her own? I hope she's all right."

"She is not my concern. You are. Where do you intend on staying while you're here?"

"If I'm not executed on the spot, you mean?" Cassandra frowns at her but the question seems to have genuinely flummoxed her. "Erm. I don't know. The Hanged Man, maybe? There's too many sad memories at the home. And the Hanged Man… we all had fun there. Varric had a room." She looks sad again. She seems to notice her own sour mood because she lifts her head and smiles as if to combat it. "Would you like to share a room with me?"

Yes. "I did not come to Kirkwall to dally with you."

"I don't disagree but the Inquisition loves to horde its coin and if we're both agreeable…"

Cassandra doesn't know if they're both agreeable. They've bickered more than not recently and taken space apart from each other. Cassandra suspects Hawke is sometimes as wary of her as Cassandra is of Hawke. But when they spend time together, as they so often are wont to do, it's rare when they don't exchange a brief touch, or kiss. Each time is like the first or at least Cassandra seems to think so, considering how nervous they are. Cassandra thought Hawke might try to charm her on the carriage ride over but the woman was preoccupied and said little. "I believe Josephine has already reserved me a room at the inn where she'll be staying."

"So live a little and stay with me instead." They come to a stop when they see a row of soldiers lined up ahead of them. City-Guard. Cassandra forces herself to not draw her sword. Hawke tenses and Cassandra wants to tell her it will be all right but she says nothing. "What's this?" Hawke asks. She focuses on a plain guardswoman who looks to be of some rank. "Brennan. It's been a while."

"Champion. You are to be taken into custody for the Viscount on the charge of conspiring with Grand Enchanter Orsino to overthrow Kirkwall and stage a rebellion."

Hawke laughs dryly. "You're serious? I've lost track of all the times I saved your ass."

They move toward her and Hawke takes a step back. Cassandra senses the magic in the air, building to a tempest. Hawke is afraid. Hawke has been afraid for a long time now. She didn't want to return. She feels cornered. Cassandra knows what she can do. The guards are no templars. They wouldn't stand a chance. "Don't," Cassandra says. She doesn't want to do it but she  _can_  stop her. Hawke looks at her, eyes dimming. In that instant, they have her. Brennan clap the irons on her wrists and yanks her forward. Two other guards take her arms and drag her roughly. "What will you do with her?" Cassandra asks.

"It's not your business what we do." Brennan says without looking. "This is Kirkwall business, outsider."

Cassandra glowers. She catches up to them. Hawke stares ahead, stone faced. "We will figure this out, Hawke. You won't be there long. We won't leave you in there."

But Hawke says nothing and all Cassandra can do is watch them take her.

* * *

They've given up on the horses, deciding to stretch out their legs. Night approaches and Evelyn finds herself feeling hollow. This isn't the lyrium comfort of before, the purity of being a vessel. She focuses on the aches in her body, the cold in her fingertips. She is hungry for the pain and distraction. Better that than the discomfort of emotion. Dorian has spent the majority of their journey with the Iron Bull, leaving Evelyn struggling with frivolous talks with Sera. The elf's conversations sail and spring, dive like arrows. It's hard to keep up and Evelyn finds herself thinking of Leliana's chats that ebb and flow like waves.

Dorian throws his reins at the qunari and comes forward. "Cousin," he says brightly.

"Dorian." He nudges her with his elbow and despite the light touch; a dull throb builds at the place of contact. Evelyn isn't sure what she's meant to do and considers nudging him back. "What is it?"

"What's going on?" She doesn't know what he means and lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, why do I bother? I'm not sure if you're not one for subtleties or if I'm impatient, but why not we get to the crux of it? You seem sad. You have seemed sad for the past couple of days."

She smiles. "Maybe I miss your company, Cousin." She looks back to the others. Sera is doing a handstand on her saddle, telling a story. She's never seen anyone half as acrobatic. Dorian mentioned it before. She wonders what it would be like to take her to bed. "I didn't know you and the Iron Bull were so close." That seems to irritate him and they walk in silence for another few minutes. "Aren't Tevinters and qunari supposed to hate one another?"

"And good boys and girls ought to marry within their stations and produce litters of children but it doesn't always happen, does it?"

"Have I struck a nerve?" Yet she is the one who's agitated. She long grew tired of following the social mores and unspoken rules of nobility. She left the man she was betrothed to. Dorian, as she understands, did similarly with the woman his family arranged for him. It's only since she's been in the Inquisition that she's questioned herself. What makes them different from Josephine? Are they depraved and selfish? Are they weaker? Did they not try hard enough? Is it the absence of possibilities?

Dorian chuckles. "Don't flatter yourself, it'll take a great deal more than that to strike a nerve."

"You're avoiding the question." Even if she already knows the answer. Tevinters and qunari have been at war as long as the historians have set quill to paper. A beat. "Are you and…" She can't speak it. The thought bothers her. Leliana told her to trust the qunari. He was forthcoming about being a Ben-Hassrath and allegedly provides them intel but it could be a trick. The Qun is barbaric. She tries again. "Are the two of you…"

"Hrm, while you chew on that question, I'll ready my own. Is this about Cassandra agreeing to go to Kirkwall? Don't tell me it's still Josephine. It's been closer to a year apart now than not. Or is it our fetching spymaster? How many women must you fawn over?"

"I'm not fawning over anyone."

"I saw you with our Sister Nightingale before we left Skyhold. Whatever it was, it seemed heated, and if I'm to be honest, I would add that I felt as if I were watching something I shouldn't."

"Stop snooping."

"I would if you stopped playing coy. Has something happened between the two of you?" he tsks. "I've warned you that it's not a good idea."

"Why isn't it? I don't bloody care if you think it's a good idea." She growls, irritated that she's let him get under her skin and give everything away.

"Now  _that_  is striking a nerve. And you're not denying it anymore. Very good. You've had some kind of development, I take it. The sexual tension between the two of you is enough to make me blush."

"Bullshit." He laughs. "Look… I." She looks at him but only briefly. She bites her lip, her tongue and tries not to think of her. She wonders when she'll become accustomed to the disappointment and rejection. "We talked. We're … I don't know. We have feelings."

"She has feelings? More than one? More than murder?" She thwacks him and he laughs again. "And now you're assaulting me on her behalf! It must be serious!"

"Shut up."

She doesn't say anymore on the matter, and Dorian, sensing he won't get any more from her returns to the Iron Bull. She looks back at him. He's engaged in conversation with the qunari. Dorian notices her and winks. She turns her attention ahead, feeling too emotional and needy.

* * *

Cassandra marches into her room. "They've taken her."

Josephine looks at Cassandra's reflection in the vanity mirror, setting down the lipstick she was readying to apply. She stands and faces her. Cassandra's face is red, her fists curled tightly. "I imagine you speak of Lady Hawke." She takes her hands and tugs her to the bench. "Tell me what happened." Cassandra explains, her voice becoming angrier the longer she speaks until Josephine at last discovers that the city-guard took Hawke as soon as she entered the city.

"I told her we would have her released as soon as possible. I asked her not to fight them." She stands. "It's been hours now. It took too long to find this infernal inn. We must speak to the Viscount. Or you must. I worry I would lose my patience with the man and beat him until he released her."

Josephine smiles wryly. How surprising. She saw their furtive glances during Halamshiral but has been so wrapped up in her own matters since that she'd been unaware of any other development. "Let us not beat the Viscount. We came to make allies, not enemies." She sits, her fingers wrapping around the lipstick again. She and Blackwall made plans to enjoy a meal in the city this evening.

"We must do  _something._ "

"We will speak to the Viscount. But the hour is late and the Keep is closed. It is long past the time that he receives dignitaries. I have no doubt that you and the others have the capabilities to find Viscount Bran—wherever he may be hiding in this city—but it would be poor form. The fact remains that he has done the Inquisition a considerable discourtesy. We are guests here and Hawke was brought for trial. To have her jailed like this… we can use it against him to leverage our position."

"So then we leave her there? Overnight?"

"We cannot come into this city, with the charges Hawke has levied against her, and make demands. I was sent here to exercise the diplomatic will of the Inquisition and that is what I will do. We must not be hasty. We must not be hotheaded. Hawke has suffered worse than this. She will survive a night in jail."

"Easy for you to say, Lady Montilyet. I wonder if you would be so easygoing if it were you or someone you cared for sitting in a cell." She glowers and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Josephine exhales. Maker, she's shaking. She rarely interacts with Seeker Pentaghast but their exchanges have always been respectful. She had not anticipated this reaction. No doubt, if it had been Vivienne who crossed her path, she would commend her clear-headed thinking. She is unsure of why Evelyn felt the need to send the Seeker with the group, along with Cullen, their soldiers and Vivienne. She is beginning to think the Inquisitor finds her incapable.

She sits back at the bench and applies the lipstick, a light coral color, when she hears a tentative knock. It's Blackwall. He is newly washed. His hair is tied back and he wears a simple shirt and trousers. It isn't one of the frumpy things she typically sees him wearing and she is surprised to find he is lean. Even his beard has been trimmed. Her face warms.

"Am I too early?" he asks worriedly.

"No. I am running late." Cassandra disrupted her routine. She meant to change and sort through her accessories to find something suitable. "Please. Come in." He steps inside uncertainly, hovering by the door and doing a magnificent job of staring at his feet. She smiles, her nerves evanescing as his become more apparent. Yes. She is the one with the advantage, not he. But she's the one who could lose everything. It is an even trade.

"I saw Cassandra march past on a warpath. Is everything all right?"

"Lady Pentaghast, I fear, is not fully aware of the machinations of diplomacy." She was the Right Hand of course and the Right Hand lacks all the subtly of the Left. "The Kirkwall guard has taken Hawke into custody." He frowns. "And Cassandra wants us to speak to the Viscount immediately. That is not possible. If it were as simple as shouting demands at inopportune times, anyone might be the Ambassador to the Inquisition."

"If you say it's best to wait to speak to the Viscount then we wait. If it becomes a fight—I'll follow Cassandra's lead. She's better at hitting things than working politicians. And I'm no better."

Ah, at least he has that awareness. "You have your own talents." He is a fine warrior, isn't he? "And being able to sense an Archdemon and kill it. Leliana spoke to me of the skills of the Grey Wardens. If a Blight looms near, you will prove invaluable." He looks bashful. "What do you make of Kirkwall so far? Is it enough to make you want to run back to the stables of Skyhold?"

He chuckles. "I'm not sure which you find more unbecoming. The people here look tired. Kirkwall is a bit of a shi—" he crosses his arms. "A bit of a dump."

"You will not find me disagreeing."

"And yet, those who aren't beaten speak positively of Hawke's past deeds. Perhaps she's made some mistakes but she's done some real good. It seems a shame to let the political games of rulers strip her of her freedom and life. We ought to protect her, Lady Montilyet."

"We were sent here for that very reason. And I intend for us to walk out of Kirkwall with Hawke and her freedom in tow." She does not to wish the remainder of the evening talking about her. "Leliana has provided me with a great deal of intelligence." She read most of it on the trip down. Hawke saved the previous Viscount's son many times over, despite his eventual death at the hands of Chantry extremists. Bran has his own secrets to exploit. Walking him to a proper decision won't be difficult.

"The spymaster and her birds make me jump whenever I hear so much as a chirp. I haven't seen the two of you spend as much time together as before. I hope all is well."

Her smile falters. How can she tell him what pushed them apart? That she harbors resentments based solely on suspicion?"Everything is fine. How kind of you to ask." She goes to the vanity table and picks up a pair of golden earrings, slipping them on. He drinks in her every movement and a trill passes through her each time. "I am afraid I have yet to take in all the Kirkwall sights or the food district. Is there something that has caught your eye?"

"There is, but nothing that belongs to Kirkwall. Or me. I'm afraid I'm of little help. I'm grateful for your company, Lady Montilyet. That alone can sustain me." Her throat goes dry and she considers correcting him, asking him to call her Josephine. But she doesn't. "Would it be inappropriate to comment—you look quite lovely tonight."

"It does us well to pull at the laces of propriety every now and then, Ser Blackwall. Lest we grow bored." She clasps a pearl necklace around her neck and glances back at him. "You look very fine this evening."

He laughs. "Make sure to tell Dorian when we get back. I'd love to see you do battle with him." He shuffles. "Let's get going before I lose hold of what little self-control I have." He opens the door to the room. Josephine hooks her arm around his elbow. He knows she's engaged. Is he humoring her? Does he not think anything will transpire between them? Or is he a deviant, like she is?

* * *

_Dearest,_

_As you requested, I have followed up on this so-called Lothario of yours, Lord Adorno. What a boring man, but easy on the eyes. I am disappointed to report that he was not susceptible to me, nor to Mariana—(I must tell you, her assets are enough to make any man lose his senses—). I imagine that he only has eyes for his betrothed. And Mariana and I with our finest attire! Wasted! I tell you, the Antivan nobility is losing its way. As always, I continue to dream of you. If I am at Skyhold and all the men of Ferelden are dead, you'll take me up on my offer? Say you will, my dear._

_Z_

Leliana smiles, tossing the letter into the fire. So, even Zevran and this so-called Mariana were unable to woo Lord Adorno away. It will be a blessing to his marriage to Josephine if he is a faithful man. However, she was looking for something that could be used to end the engagement, something that would grant Josephine her freedom without need for a duel. Does Josephine want that still? There are other matters, far more important to attend to, but she has so few friends that she'd like to care for those that remain.

There is more intelligence to sort through. Letters folded, rolled, corners soft and fuzzy, others stained with blood, granting her the artillery needed to win this war. Argent has suspicions that one of Arl Teagan's men has infiltrated Skyhold. The agent is elven. They will keep an eye on him and when the time is right, ask questions. If necessary, they will apply force. If his life is snuffed away like a candle, he can thank the would-be king that dared to push them.

The candle flickers and she looks at it. How many nights did she spend in the chantry reading by candlelight? Studying the word of the Maker? Mother Dorothea taught her that He saved her. He gave her refuge. And after Marjolaine, she had to hide, she had to get away from that lifestyle. But some days her thoughts drifted, and instead of His word, she thought of marks, of the excitement she felt when she pursued her target, how sweet it was. Better than sex, better than the betrayal of love, better than singing hymns to Him. When she stabbed the blade into their hearts or throats and the blood spilled free, that was a mark of her victory. The pleasure those memories gave her always made her feel guilty. She recited the necessary verses for penance. She needed to atone. She thought she could, if He chose her.

She has a drink of wine. She isn't sure where it came from. She isn't forgetful. Did one of her agents bring it for her? The honey fills her with warmth. She pushes the hood back, fingers absently threading through her hair. This most recent intelligence comes from Ostwick. Leliana sent out feelers after the mess with Brynn to not uncover anything.

However, it would seem that Bann Trevelyan is indeed speaking to Arl Teagan and in close communication with the few clerics of power in the Chantry. He has not taken Brynn's death well.  _There are reports that they were rutting long before our Inquisitor was born._  Leliana folds the document, mapping out the ways this could play out. Evelyn asked if she would kill her father if he became a threat. Leliana hadn't answered. If it were any other man. If they weren't close.

She massages her forehead. How is she? Leliana remains furious at Cassandra. She had no right to go. She abandoned her duty to the Inquisitor to focus on Hawke. Will those who went with the Inquisitor be enough to keep her safe?  _After everything I've sacrificed for You, will it be enough?_  Sometimes she thinks He feeds off her sorrows. Justinia would tell her, gently, that she was being self-centered. She goes back and forth on whether she hates Him. It makes her wonder what it's all for? Has her purpose been a sham? Has her life been wasted for some ideal? For a figment of imagination for those too weak to survive that they could truly be alone?

"You're not alone." Leliana straightens in the chair. Cole sits cross-legged on the table of her rookery. Somehow he has not disturbed her papers. Was he the one who brought the wine? "Yes." She frowns. So he's reading her thoughts. A handy trick. One that could help them greatly. He narrows her eyes at her. "You could use the Litany of Adralla, yes." He sounds sad.

"I don't think you're a demon." The Litany of Adralla. It worked in the Fereldan Circle. It worked at the White Spire. "I know how you come to people, Cole. So some part of me must have called to you." He goes to those who despair, who are alone, who are suffering and yet he comes to her. There are others who are worthier. Or maybe she only laments that she's human after all and has weaknesses.

"Sometimes, strength is so strong, steel so tight that it cracks and splinters." He looks at her. "You can be soft again."

"I have no interest in being soft." She thinks to stand but her finger only toys along the base of the wine. It's not as if she can get away from him. She could ask him to leave but maybe she wants the company.

"Gentleness is not weakness. You think of her. She thinks of you." He tells her urgently. Leliana doesn't have to ask who he's talking about. "She bruises and hurts and aches and bleeds…" she looks at him, her chest tightening uncomfortably, "but she stands. You make her stand again. And faith. But not like me." A beat. He plays with frayed ends of his shirt sleeves. "She's all right. You're worried and she knows. It makes her stronger when she's weak."

"Don't tell me what she's thinking," she says sharply.

"But you should know."

She doesn't want to know her motivations. Cole is useful… and kind, but some things should be guarded close. "Never mind that. Cole. Can you talk to those who are in the Fade?"

"I don't like to go there."

It doesn't answer the question but it's one she knows she shouldn't have asked. She'll never know what Justinia meant about failing her. Perhaps she should never know. But the Inquisitor is all right and that's what's important. She hates to think of her on the field, injured. She hopes they're taking care of her. Yes. She's all right. She is. It makes her rest easier. Breathe easier. Some of the tension slips from her body and it is as if a weight has been lifted.

She blinks. Why can't she remember what she was doing? Her thoughts have gone muddled, as if she's only just woken. Odd. She takes another drink of wine and returns to her papers.

* * *

Evelyn spits. It runs red as it dribbles past her lips. She touches her tongue along the inside of her mouth but still tastes it. Giving up, she washes off in the stream. The moonlight is dim and she only sees glints like ice cresting the stream. The water is freezing. She tries but can't control the chattering of her teeth. She pulls the water over face and hair, trying to get the blood and demon goop out before returning to her tent. She crawls inside. Sera's already there. She stops short, sniffling and moving toward her sleeping roll, touching the journal of stories for comfort. "Why are you in here?" Evelyn asks.

"Dunno. Bull told me to take a hike. Bet it's not a redhead he'll be bouncing this time." She falls on her back, arms outstretched. Evelyn shies away from the contact, frightened she'll want to seek it out further once she's had a taste. That's all she ever needed before. It was easy. Numbingly easy. "Herald?"

"Hm?"

"What's on with you?" Evelyn looks at her. "No secret that I don't much fancy the robes, yeah? But what you did at that creepy shrine. It ain't right."

"He's a magister. Who cares?"

"Say that when Dorian's around. Maybe  _that's_  why he didn't want to share tonight."

"Dorian's not a magister. If Erasthenes has answers on Calpernia and Corypheus we can't let that go to waste. It's not personal. He's one man. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices." The flecks of green in Sera's eyes darken. "Leliana and our agents will get what we need out of him." She's not soft. "And once we have it, we can send him to the Maker."

"You Andrastian lot sure like to talk about the Maker after you've offed someone. Will he get there before you, I wonder? I heard what he said. You're the same as Coryphyspit."

"I'm not."

Sera pulls an arrow from who knows where and trails the head along Evelyn's arm. The sharpness is dulled some by the sleeves of her shirt but the sensation remains heightened. Colors and sensation are alarmingly bright these days. "You're getting to be big people, Herald. Which isn't what I want. Remember what I said about the arrows?" She flicks her wrist quickly until the tip of the arrow rests firmly at her neck. "I want to like you."

"So like me." She swallows and the arrow presses deeper. "We're doing the right thing."

"Hard to believe it. Your face. It was made right. But you're pale. The bruises are there. There's blood everywhere, no matter how you scrub at it." Evelyn rubs subconsciously at her fingernails. It's always hardest to get it out from under there. "Why's everything roughing you up lately? You weren't always shite. Bit weird, right? And you've got that little weenie sword. You tired?" Evelyn nods. Yes. She's tired. It's better lately. She's stronger than she was when she first started weaning herself off but she isn't as strong as when she had the lyrium. Will she ever be that strong again? She used to shrug off the blows she took today and worry about the damage later. Lately she screams and grunts, and panics at the sight of blood. Evelyn turns on her side, gripping her shoulders absently, desperate for warmth. "You cold?" Sera shifts the arrowhead so it touches her lips.

Evelyn stills. "Yes." Sera's closer and Evelyn prays she'll breach the distance between them, push enough to make her give in and repel the cold. She forces herself to speak. "I've got a sheet." Sera nods. "Thanks."

* * *

The guards will not let Cassandra see her.

She leaves the brig agitated. Normally she might threaten them but that could prove detrimental. Nor does she need another lecture from Josephine on the fine points of diplomacy. She's frustrated. What was the purpose of coming here to watch over things? This matter with Hawke being taken into custody has left her feeling completely useless. Is this why she left the Inquisitor's side? To wander Kirkwall in a foul mood?

What if this devious Viscount does something to Hawke? And she stands back and lets it happen for the sake of diplomacy? She grows angrier by the second. What if Hawke feels betrayed by her? What if some ruffian attempts to attack her and Hawke fights back the way she can? She must calm herself. Where are the reasonable people of this city when she needs them? She has no idea where Madame Vivienne or Cullen have gone to spend their evening. As far as she knows, the city is no longer safe for mage or templar, though both have abandoned it.

She wishes Varric were here. He could point to any location and have some filthy or absurd story to recount with Hawke likely in the midst of it causing trouble. Some part of her fell in love with Kirkwall through the telling, despite the tragedy and the disease. It was a story of triumph against adversity. It was the story of Hawke, persisting through the inconceivable odds and losses. And she continues to lose. Varric. Her brother is all but gone with the Wardens and now her freedom has been taken. What would Aveline think?

Aveline.

She would help her. She could talk to her. Cassandra wanders Lowtown, trying to remember where the Captain of the Guard lives. It was in Lowtown last time she visited in search of Hawke but now she cannot remember. She will have to ask someone. Seeing no one of repute she settles on one of the prostitutes that lingers near a torch. Cassandra is unsure if she's fifty or in her mid-twenties. "Don't hang around. You're taking my customers."

"I most certainly am not."

But the prostitute spits at her feet and Cassandra moves on, avoiding a stream of piss from a man urinating on a nearby alley wall and finally spotting a house that looks vaguely familiar. It is a modest, rectangular home. A light burns in the window. Yes, she remembers Varric shouting in this direction when they dragged him from the city. She must not have been in. There's no way Aveline would abandon him. She's never met the woman but somehow she knows that. She goes towards the home and suddenly feels bashful. This is the home of Aveline Vallen. A capable, honest, noble woman.

Her heart pitter patters.  _Oh, stop being ridiculous._  She marches to the home sternly and pounds on the door. On second thought, perhaps she is too aggressive. The door opens and she doesn't recognize the man she sees. Tall and plain with a square, long face. "Can I help you?" he asks.

No. She got the wrong home. Unless… "Are you Donnic?" he shifts his head, regarding her.

"What is it?" Another voice, female, sturdy. Donnic shifts and a woman appears at the door. Barefoot, with a sleeveless shirt and muscled arms. Her hair is red, her face freckled, green eyes inquisitive. Not as tall as Cassandra would have imagined from Varric's storytelling. "Oh. I see it now. You're that Seeker Varric has written me about. What has he done now?"

* * *

Dorian's bet her five sovereigns.

Sovereigns are nothing to her. They've been nothing to her long before she was the Inquisitor but it's the principle. She taps her fingers on the tavern table, looking around. Maybe for her. But she doesn't come here. And rarely does Evelyn. Dorian brings a frosty pitcher of beer over.

"I applaud you, Cousin. You've made it this long. Another few hours and those sovereigns are yours."

She doesn't know why they bet. Why is it that coin makes things interesting? Coin is the dullest thing in the world. She rests her elbow on the table and spins a gold coin. Her fingers are scratched, unnaturally red and bruised. Dorian pours her a drink. She doesn't want it but doesn't say so. "Are you still angry about Erasthenes?" Why are Dorian and Sera giving her a hard time about it? Dorian's latest errands include hunting down Venatori. Not that she'll complain. But Sera. Sera turned a man into wine. Why do they act like she's the bad one?

"You say that as if I'm the one who's in the wrong."

"I won't pretend I am."

They frown. The patrons at the Tavern keep looking over at her. Does she disappoint them? Do they think her plain? Too tall? Not tall enough? Weak? Intimidating? Do they even know she's the Inquisitor? She doesn't know. She wishes she knew. She sees her reflection in the knife and fork. There's a shadow at the corner of her eye and she turns her head but no one is there. She hears the strumming of a lute. The bard. What's her name? Marian? No. She considers asking Dorian.

"What do you think of Bull?" Dorian asks.

She looks away from the bard. "He could use a shirt."

He laughs. "I'll buy him one when I win the bet."

"Keep dreaming."

"But—be serious, dear cousin. Do you have an opinion?"

Her eyes narrow. "I think he's a qunari spy who's handing over our intelligence to his people. I have concerns and I don't trust him."

"Then why'd you bring him to the Shrine of Dumat?"

"Because you suggested it," she snaps. She's gotten tired of defending her every decision. "My alternatives were a spirit or demon, or whatever the Void he is, and a prickly elf whom I've already assaulted and has made his opinion of me perfectly clear."

"Do you like anyone?" They sulk and drink their beer. "You're close minded."

"You're a Tevinter mage. You're so open minded your brain is liable to fall out."

His laugh is cutting. "You're prickly." He scratches along his jaw. A short beard is growing out. This is what happens when they go out adventuring. He's a handsome man. She imagines what it would be like to kiss him before making a face. He arches an eyebrow but she says nothing. Whatever she was meant to feel or what some feel, she's never felt it and she imagines she never will. "Speaking of open minded, I wonder if your harbor the same ill will towards your spymaster."

"I don't harbor any ill will for you." She ignores his other wording. "What are you on about?"

"I can't say that I speak from experience—but haven't you heard Cassandra talk about her? Your Nightingale. I think it's a source of their disagreements. Sister Nightingale has some radical views. Not that I like that word. It's the word bigots use when people try to make a difference, when they speak out for the downtrodden and try to advocate for equal rights. Fair treatment."

"Anders was radical."

"So was Knight-Commander Meredith."

There's another long silence. They nurse their beers. Leliana isn't like either of them. Would Dorian listen? She's making suppositions. What does she know about Leliana outside of their talks and that she makes her feel better? Is it selfish to want to feel better? To want to be near her? To feel as if she's somehow worthy? It's not like the lyrium. Leliana makes her feel better. The lyrium makes her feel less bad. She finishes her beer, hating the sour taste in her mouth. She drinks water to wash it down. She hates getting into disagreements with him. Is she entitled an opinion or must she guard it because of her position?

"You look sad again, Cousin."

Does she? The bard is playing some song. Nightingale's Eyes something or another. Evelyn focuses on her fingers, dancing over the strings, the earnestness of her voice. What would it have been like to hear Leliana sing and play and tell stories? The night Haven fell everyone came together to sing a song. Perhaps Leliana joined the group. Evelyn doesn't know. She found it overwhelming and left the scene. She smiles, thinking of how mercilessly Leliana popped her shoulder into place on that frigid mountain. It seems like a lifetime ago.

_Nightingale's eyes_

_Can free the ties_

_On our hands._

What does it mean? Is it about her work? How Leliana does the difficult things so others do not? So others feel free. So their hands aren't tied. Yes. That must be it. But how does Marian or Mary or whoever— know that? How does a woman like that know it? How, when she knows so little? She touches the satchel at her side, Leliana's journal of stories safely stored away. She sent reports. She told her Erasthenes was waiting to be interrogated. She wrote the note several times, always finding some smudge of blood on the paper any time she thought she was done. "Why is she singing that?" she mutters.

"Hmph. Well, I see where your focus is," Dorian complains.

Evelyn looks at him. "Did you pay her?"

"To sing that drivel? I've been blithely blathering on at you for minutes now and this is how you repay me." He watches her suspiciously. She taps her foot, shifting on the bench chair. It's hard to keep still. The tavern is warm but she's still cold. She's lightheaded. The templars in the tavern are obvious, even without their armor. Does she look like them? Or is she a husk compared to what she once was?

She considers returning to her room. Having another bath. She took a hot one upon returning, scrubbing away the dirt and blood, getting as clean as she could, fussing over her reflection in the mirror. It wasn't good enough. It didn't erase the burst blood vessels in her eyes, the bruises and scrapes. She wants to see Leliana. She can't see Leliana. If she sees Leliana like this, she'll be angry at Cassandra and disappointed in her. Maybe she's overthinking it.

"Evelyn." She looks at him. "Andraste, I think you're as bored with me as I have been with you for the past hour." What? "Look, just give me my sovereigns and you can be on your way. This isn't even funny anymore. Why don't we continue to silently disapprove of our interests and leave it at that? I think we can agree that we'd rather be with other company."

Agreeing or dissenting seems like a trap. She ruffles a hand through her hair and sighs longingly. Maybe she should see to her. She wants to. Maybe they can talk. Maybe Leliana … maybe she's come to some sort of decision. It's all confusing when it shouldn't be. Dorian looks at her and she considers asking him for a touch up. To heal her. To fix the bruising and the scrapes that haven't gone away in the weeks it took to get back. But she can't. She knows what the healing does to him. It's not worth it for vanity.

Regardless she's lost the bet. Maybe she only made it because the outcome never mattered. Because the coin never mattered. She throws the sovereigns at him and goes.

* * *

Leliana pours a glass of wine. She turns her head, imagining she's seen something but no, she is alone in her office. A red solitary candle burns and moonlight filters in through the high window. It has been hours since the Inquisitor returned but she has not sought her out. It's for the better, though Leliana has questions, particularly around the reports that have been submitted to her about this Magister Erasthenes. He remains captive, to be interrogated by their agents. They will have answers—more of them, soon enough. The Inquisitor was wise to hold him for a time longer.

She drinks her wine, enjoying its sweetness and how it beckons memories of better times. Those hopeful days. She wonders how the group that went to Kirkwall is faring. The first of the reports from the city should be arriving shortly. Athenril keeps her abreast of issues there and Isabela sends her the odd message from whatever part of Thedas she's passing through. The pirate never misses the opportunity to bring up their past experiences together. Not that Leliana has forgotten. The woman is quite talented, after all.

Leliana searches through everything they have on Calpernia, including the Inquisitor's scattered Crestwood account. This thing she wrote—Calpernia advising her to break her chains as she did—it makes sense now. The woman was a slave and now she's one to Corypheus, not knowing he plans something far more diabolical than any literal chains. No wonder he didn't want her or her agents stepping foot in the Shrine of Dumat. At least she's clever enough to suspect that he's hiding something. Will it be enough to save her? Perhaps they can turn her against Corypheus.

She continues her search, making notes for herself, mentally deciding the agents who will see to the work when she hears the squawks of the ravens. She prays it's her. She prays it isn't. There's a knock. Leliana abandons her chair and goes to the door. As she hoped and feared, the Inquisitor stands there. Bruises dot her jawline and temple but her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are specked red but her pupils are light and clear, focused on her. Neither speaks. Air builds in Leliana's chest until she's unsure whether she's holding it or incapable of breathing. The Maker has kept her safe after all. She offers Him a small prayer of thanks.

The Inquisitor speaks first. "I just lost five sovereigns."

"How did you do that?"

"Dorian and I made a bet. He said I couldn't make it a night without finding some excuse to see you. I said I could."

"But you're here."

An apologetic nod. "I blame that bard. She started singing a song about you and whatever self-control I had went out the window."

"Is that so?" Leliana has been impressed with what appears to be her remarkable self control. A considerable difference from how the Inquisitor spent most of her life, indulging herself, how she spent the initial period of the Inquisition, flailing her way through her duties. She studies her eyes. When was the last her gaze was so steady? And without that glassy sheen most templar's eyes have. She remains off the lyrium. What a feat. "If I close the door and keep you from entering, will you be able to keep your coin?"

"I'm not sure. To be honest, I don't really care about the sovereigns." She steps closer and Leliana steps back, once, then again until she realizes the Inquisitor has entered the claustrophobic office. Leliana makes no comment when the Inquisitor shuts it without taking her eyes off her. "I've missed you." The confession is tinged with sadness. "Have you missed me?" Leliana realizes she's holding her breath. "The last time we spoke you said that you trusted me. I know what the Left Hand of the Divine is meant to represent. The shadows and the sinister. But I wanted to say that I trust you. Implicitly. I wanted to ask you if saying the words aloud at the vault library was enough to break the spell between us. Or if the break from one another did the trick. I wanted to ask if you no longer wanted me."

Whatever answer she wants to give, the response of her body has already marked her a liar. "Inquisitor—"

"I've seen the sadness in your eyes. Whoever's hurt you— I'm not the same."

Leliana's lips thin. "You are no Maker, it's true." She flinches, as if it's her name Leliana cast doubt on. "I wonder, how many trials does the Maker grant His believers before He casts them away and decides they are unworthy? It's a game to Him. What does He give that He does not take away?" The Inquisitor's fingers tremble against her face. "All I have is myself." She cannot trust herself to have anything.

"And me." Leliana tries to control her breath. "I told you long ago that I would believe for the both of us, until you found your faith again. When I struggled, you led me back to the path. And I'll do the same for you, if you let me." No. No. She's not sure. She isn't sure. She can't do this again. But she swallows when the Inquisitor's lips graze hers, lifting her eyes to see her face basked in candlelight. "I want more than a night." She tells her. For all her self-assuredness, she's vulnerable now, nervous. "Do you?" Yes. But she can't say it. She won't. But she nods without intending to. Words lie easier than the body. There's light in her eyes. Leliana thinks honesty suits them, even if it later comes to damn them. Those same lips brush her own once more and Leliana stills, taking a breath and closing her eyes when the kiss comes again, relishing the sensation and warmth, what she hasn't experienced in far too long. The Inquisitor's arm circles her waist, hand cradling her face as if she were a goblet of holy wine. "You taste of honey." She smiles, awestruck.

Honey…? After so much bitterness…? Leliana's lips part, accepting the Inquisitor, making her own offering. They draw sharp breath, as if surfacing after being submerged for too long. Exhaling unsteadily, they pull close again. The Inquisitor pushes Leliana's hood back, fingers delving into her hair. Their kisses, soft and slow, deepen. Seconds trickle by, spinning into a haze that becomes timeless. Leliana circles her arms around her neck and brings her closer. The Inquisitor's pulse thrums beneath her fingertips. How has this happened? She's been unraveled by a touch. Perhaps her weakness was in thinking she was untouchable.  _This_  is why it was important to keep away from her. But it's too late now, isn't it? They can't reverse the fall.

They move back and Leliana's legs hit the desk, knocking the candle over in the process. Liquid red wax licks her fingers and she gasps, their kiss coming to an abrupt end. The candle rolls to the floor, still burning. The Inquisitor looks from it to her. "Are you all right?"

Burning wax is nothing compared to the pain she's known but the sentiment is appreciated. "Yes. I'm fine." She touches the Inquisitor's face, unknowingly pressing a bead of scalding wax to her and causing her to hiss. A kiss in apology and it's forgotten.

The Inquisitor lifts her handily onto the desk. Leliana didn't think she could have the necessary strength while withdrawing from lyrium. Maybe she senses her surprise. There's a smile and her lips brush against her temple. Leliana inclines her chin and their lips meet again. Her fingers trail beneath the the sash circling the Inquisitor's robes. Leliana looks at her, searching for anything that could dissuade her but there's nothing but a nod of assent. Leliana pulls the sash free and it spills to the floor.

The Inquisitor's hand settles carefully on her shoulder, moving lower, quaking but skilled as she begins to undo the many buttons, belts, lace of her robes.

They work silently, removing what they can in the confined space, until they're naked from the waist up. The Inquisitor's alabaster, lean and strong, some sculpture come to life. Her own body is slimmer and freckled. Morrigan mocked her for it years ago. Skinny like a boy, she said. Leliana took it to heart for some time. She missed those days in court and thought no one would think her beautiful the way she was then. Now she's colder, older, bitter. But the Inquisitor tells her she tastes of honey, the same Inquisitor whose eyes are alight with desire. The old insult is forgotten.

Their eyes roam, drinking and feasting before their hands begin their cautious exploration and their mouths find their way to one another again. So soft, so light, so unlike them. Their lips stray only to press the occasional kiss to shoulder and neck, breasts and belly, until finally, with the unsteadiest of breath, their hands move downward, shifting what garments they must to render one another helpless.

Time passes. The chatter of ravens and tavern music in the distance, all too far away in comparison to the breath resounding in their ears. Leliana can't escape the sensation, as if she's been swallowed by fire and quenched by the embrace of the sea. She can't remember the last time her hands shook but she worries. This isn't optimal. She can't touch the Inquisitor the way she'd like in this small space. She feels selfish. She tries to tell her and is met with kisses.

The Inquisitor's fingertips are cold and shaking. Leliana sees her frustration, hears her apology but shakes her head. The Inquisitor's fingers warm quickly. Leliana helps her. She's so flushed, so focused. Is she all right? Leliana asks the question and gets a smile in return, a whisper in her ear while her fingers continue their work. They're agile. They hint. They apply the kind of pressure that strips Leliana of the tension that clings to her.

The night passes that way, their eyes locked, keeping one another tethered as they ascend, higher and higher.


	28. Prisoners

The light mist in the air makes Kirkwall look eerie and uninhabited. Cassandra heard reparations were underway but thought they'd gone further than this. It still looks like a disaster zone. Not all of this could have been from Anders' attack. The city appears to have been under siege since then.

Aveline has donned her Captain of the Guard armor. She is not the kind of person Cassandra would engage in battle but is happy to ally with. Her movements are purposeful. She is just as magnificent as Cassandra imagined she'd be. Their talk last night was derailed. She's had months to get acquainted with Varric's death. Aveline knew him far longer. Cassandra had not intended to be the bearer of bad news. Aveline sat when Cassandra told her, absently touching Donnic's hand when he placed it on her shoulder.

They agreed to rendezvous in the early morning.

"I thank you for agreeing to meet with our ambassador."

"It's the least I can do. You may be a stranger but Varric said you were a pain in the ass, which means we'll probably get along." Cassandra laughs. A pity she discovered her fondness for the dwarf too late. "So Hawke's been in the brig all night. It's more than I managed when she lived here. Brennan was just following orders," Aveline tells Cassandra.

"Whose orders?"

"That's trickier. The Viscount's had a stick up his ass about Hawke long before the rebellions. The people are angry and she's an easy target. It doesn't help that she always has a smart assed remark to make, usually at his expense. Varric was paying bribes. You know how he is. Was. He wanted to take care of everyone. It worked and I imagine it would have kept working if someone had had the sense to keep making payments. It was decided that  _should_  the payment—'to rebuild Kirkwall'— _stop_  coming in, Hawke would be taken into custody. It seemed a good compromise at the time because she wasn't supposed to come back. She's smarter than that."

"Our Inquisitor asked that she return. She wanted this matter settled diplomatically."

"It seems like Hawke would be a small affair compared to what she's got to deal with. What makes your Inquisitor think she knows the ways of this city? I've heard about her. Some magic hook in her hand that latches shut the holes in the skies. I don't know what kind of magic grants such power but it can't be any good."

Cassandra considers telling her about Corypheus. The Anchor was meant to be a key to tear down the Veil and it isn't as if Aveline didn't battle the creature. Yet revealing such a thing could be dangerous. The Inquisitor is sensitive enough about the matter as it is. "She has done a great deal of good with it."

"I won't say I don't appreciate what she's doing with those rifts. But that's not what the people are talking about, is it? No, they're talking about her armies and her allies. Word's spreading among the Hightown nobles that even Orlesian Empire is in her pocket now. Don't think I've missed your people outside the walls. You realize how such a thing can be worrisome?"

"I have heard people make the argument before. The Inquisitor answers to the Maker."

"And he talks to her, I assume, whether we hear him or not. It's convenient." Cassandra frowns, not liking how cavalier she is. Wasn't she married to a templar? She expected her to be more devout. "And now without so much as a Divine to lead her."

The absence of a Divine is troubling but there are no qualified candidates. Perhaps it's best the Inquisitor continue to rely on their counsel. "The Inquisitor is a good woman," Cassandra says. She is a tad amorous, perhaps.

"I hope so. Varric and Hawke are in a mess of trouble because of her."

They round the steps to the Inn. Aveline hesitates awkwardly at the marble entrance, ivy running the walls, before entering. They take the curled steps to the hall where Josephine's room lies. Cassandra stayed at the same inn last night but got no rest despite the luxurious accommodations.

Cassandra stops at Josephine's door and knocks. When there's no answer Aveline curls her steel fist and slams it against the door. Josephine answers not a moment later, wrapped in a golden robe that sparkles like sunlight. Her hair is loose, her face without makeup. She is radiant and Cassandra has difficulty looking at her. "I have brought the Captain of the guard."

Josephine ushers them in. She sets down her glass of orange juice on a nearby table stacked with plump grapes, breads and cheeses before curtsying deeply. Cassandra's stomach clenches. She hasn't eaten in her haste to meet with Aveline. Aveline looks a cross between irritated and bashful. "Lady Aveline Hendyr. A pleasure."

Aveline takes the hand that wasn't offered and gives it a tight squeeze in greeting. Josephine grimaces but Aveline neither notices nor cares. "All right. Let's cut to the chase. Hawke is in custody and I'd like her out of it but first I need to make sure that you'll do right by her. Tell me you have a plan. Maker, why not just bribe the man?"

"The Inquisitor has made it plain to me that resolving the matter in such… traditional fashions would be an admission of fault. She wishes for an allegiance with those seeking to bring Hawke to justice. It is my task to facilitate the process."

"Hawke doesn't need to be brought to 'justice'. I would go so far as to say that it is an injustice that she has been brought here." Cassandra and Josephine exchange looks. "So, this Inquisitor is looking for more allies," Aveline looks sharply at Cassandra. "And how does she intend to bring forth this alliance? It had better not be her intention to give up Hawke."

"No. She was clear that surrendering Hawke is  _not_  a possibility," Josephine sighs a little, as if the matter were tedious. "I have been doing my due diligence and studying the intelligence Leliana provided on the fine denizens of Kirkwall. The Viscount has his secrets. Many of them, as a matter of fact. I am surprised he would be so bold as to make demands of the Inquisition. I suppose it takes all kinds. The smaller the man, the more extravagant the demand."

"When will you meet with him?" Cassandra asks. "You cannot use the same excuse as you did last night. He should be receiving audiences today. We came here at his behest."

"Yes and he is exerting the little influence he has by having us wait until near the end of the day to see us." She lifts an envelope from the vanity table. "It's a show, nothing more. I plan to take this time to better our position. Cullen has agreed to give me a tour of Kirkwall. I will gather what I can until I am to meet with the Viscount."

Aveline crosses her arms. "Why not ask Hawke? Cullen spent the majority of his time in the Gallows."

"Ah, yes. That may be but what matters is his position in the fair city. He left in relatively good standing and was remembered for his opposition of Knight-Commander Meredith at the height of her madness."

"That's not how I remember it," Aveline says.

"It is as Josephine says," Cassandra tells her. She will not have their Commander's reputation sullied.

"In any case, Lady Hawke must be held as long as you can manage, Captain," Josephine says to Aveline. "I would appreciate it if you bring her straight to the Viscount's office upon release. Do not allow her to eat or bathe." Cassandra grits her jaw. "Lady Hawke is resourceful and persistent. Of that I have no doubt. But the lower she looks, the more insignificant she appears, the more magnanimous and wise the Viscount can pretend to be when he comes to his senses and realizes he does not wish to make an enemy of the Inquisition to get a little clout in Kirkwall."

"That is deceitful," Cassandra says.

A line touches Josephine's brow, a quizzical smile that is almost sensual in its arrogance. " _That_ is diplomacy. That is the Game. That is politics, Seeker. I do not interfere with your battles. Do not interfere with mine."

"I won't starve her," Aveline says. "That isn't how the City-Guard does things."

Josephine gets to her feet. "Make an exception this once."

"I'll do my job, Ambassador. You do yours."

"Do you not realize that I am  _trying_  to help Lady Hawke? With all due respect, Captain, you do not know how these bureaucrats work. If you wish for Hawke to escape from this city safely, without our men coming in to remedy the situation, I suggest you follow my direction."

Aveline glowers, a tremor running over her jaw. "Fine. You have today. For Hawke. Screw it up and it's me you'll be dealing with. And for the record, I don't give a rat's ass how many surnames you have," Cassandra blushes, "or how many gold rings you wear. Hawke is family. She's lost enough to this political bullshit. I won't have her be a pawn any longer. Solve this or get out of my city." She stomps out before Josephine can respond.

Cassandra looks after her, awed and flustered. What an incredible woman.

Josephine's face is twisted as if having smelled something sour. She twists her fingers on the pearl necklace around her neck. "What a lovely woman."

* * *

Night was receding by the time she climbed into bed.

The sun is bright. She covers her eyes with her hands and breathes. Air swoops into her lungs. She slept too long. They'd parted, it seemed, out of practicality, breath glancing along their lips. Leliana touched Evelyn's face, soft laughter in her words.  _It's late, Inquisitor. How will we have our dance if we can't get up in the morning?_

The sun is warmer than it should be. There's no mist. Particles of dust dance in the beams of light. Evelyn watches them swirl before throwing the blankets off and rising. Minutes later she's dressed and out the door. She foregoes eating, throwing herself into her usual morning exercise before the heat of the sun begins to overwhelm her. Her head is foggy. It makes her worry that last night was some invention of a mind deprived of lyrium and sleep. Leliana's warm breath against her ear and neck.  _Yes_  breathed like a prayer and Evelyn eager to answer and restore faith.

If it was earlier she might think of having breakfast with her. As it stands, Evelyn doesn't know where she sleeps. She wonders if they'll have opportunities for getting to know each other now that they've let down some of their walls.

Yet she's anxious. Leliana is different from Josephine but as incomprehensible. She wonders whether she'll always involve herself in a relationship where she hasn't the foggiest idea about the rules. She moves to the War Room, noting Josephine's empty desk. Evelyn is glad she isn't in Skyhold but worries how things might change when she returns. Leliana said that Josephine had no say in what became of them but they're old friends.

She enters the War Room and finds more than she anticipated. Leliana, Harding, Ser Barris and an agent whose name Evelyn can't remember. Startlingly pretty if not for the emptiness in her eyes. But she's no tranquil. "Inquisitor," Harding cocks a slow smile. "Fancy meeting up with you here. And—not in the field, I mean." She seems flustered. "Sister Nightingale didn't mention you'd be joining us."

Leliana's eyes dance. "I didn't think she'd be available given her late night." Evelyn doesn't know what to look at but feels a blast of heat on her cheeks. Her tone goes serious. "It's good you're here, Inquisitor. There's a situation we've been monitoring for a few weeks now."

Not the matter with Erasthenes then? "This sounds serious," Evelyn says.

She nods. "I've asked Ser Barris to quietly bolster our patrols. Skyhold is a fortress and one far removed, it's true, but as you know, it is not impenetrable." Leliana's eyes flick to Evelyn's hand, absently touching her belly. "I'm sorry to report that we have been breached."

Evelyn's head spins.  _"What?"_

"We've been keeping an ear to the ground," Harding says. "As more and more people come to us for refuge, it's inevitable that parties with ulterior motives will infiltrate us. We've documented everyone who's come to us and cross-referenced our list for irregularities. Unfortunately, we can't always verify someone is who they say."

"Not in as timely of a fashion as we would like," Leliana says with a soft sigh. "This is an unfortunate byproduct of the Inquisition growing as it has. We need more eyes."

"Then we'll get them." But she doesn't know how to go about that. Likely Leliana does but how do they know who to trust, who's right for the job? It's a discussion for another time. "Who is this infiltrator?" Evelyn asks.

"A city-elf," Leliana says. "He originated in Denerim but has taken up residence in Redcliffe for many years now. Argent has located his family." There's something left unsaid. "We plan to speak to him soon." She looks to Ser Barris and Harding. "Any reports your templars and scouts have, I'll need brought to me straight away."

"Count on it," Barris claps a hand over his chest and exits. Harding nods and follows.

Argent remains. Leliana looks to her. "Have our agents made it to his family?"

"This morning, Ma'am."

"Good. Now we can begin. I don't need to tell you to be discreet. Take him to the usual place. We'll get answers out of him yet."

"Yes, Sister Nightingale." Her voice is blank. Evelyn peers at her but Argent appears not to notice. A tip of her head and the woman leaves, closing the door silently behind her.

"Who is that woman?" Evelyn asks. She knows she's an agent. She's the one Dorian described, the one with the aristocratic nose. But she knows nothing else about her.

"Argent? She's one of our best. Good with a blade. Quiet." A beat. "She's done much for our cause. Behind the scenes, of course. Other than that, she's no one. All our best agents are nothing. Have nothing. And this work… it strips from you the little you have." There's hurt on her face and then it's gone before Evelyn can word what she wants to say. "Our soldiers will be sweeping the outskirts of Skyhold to search for any irregularities. Harding and our other agents will keep an eye inside our walls. This shouldn't have happened but it won't be like before with the House of Repose. We've taken significant safety precautions since that incident."

"And yet we still have a massive hole in the hallway leading here."

Leliana smiles. "So much for inviting you stargazing."

Evelyn finds herself returning the smile but soon fixates on the problem at hand. "We really should get that patched." Leliana nods. "Why didn't I know about this infiltrator before?"

"Up until this morning our evidence was circumstantial. I would have mentioned it earlier but earlier was last night and… well. We were occupied." She lowers her face thoughtfully. "Perhaps that was the wrong decision."

She forces the words out. "What was?"

"Not telling you straight away."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"No."

Evelyn wants to reach out to her but feels shy and unsure in the daylight. "Are you all right with what happened between us?"

Her smile is quizzical. "It was unexpected," she tells her as if only musing aloud to herself. "I'm still not sure what to make of it. Except, I'm happy it happened." Evelyn exhales and takes a breath, hoping to soothe her burning lungs. "I admit… it can be hard to let down my defenses. I'm not sure I even know how anymore. But if you're willing to be patient with me… I promise to give you everything I can."

"I think you're worth a little patience."

"I'm glad you think so." A brief silence passes, long enough for Evelyn to notice the disruption of her rhythm. Something else has been left unsaid. "This is a hard world, Inquisitor… and we see ugly things. A little companionship can make life bearable."

"I get the sense that you're not saying something."

"Our work is dangerous. Many want us dead. We must be vigilant. We must brace ourselves."

"Brace ourselves for what?" Death, she imagines. Failure. Loss. "I can't say this is how I imagined our chat would go." She goes closer, cocking her head to better look at her. "I'm the Inquisitor. Whether or not we exist, I'll always be in danger." Her eyes have a way of looking past her. "Is that what you're afraid of? I remember when you couldn't wait to be rid of me." The Anchor in her hand flares as if to make a point. She brings her hands behind her back, clenching her fingers tight, trying to ignore the flash of excruciating pain racing up her arm.

"You shouldn't make jokes."

"Cassandra says I make jokes to cover up some stupid thing I've said."

"Oh? Is this when you're making your advances?"

She laughs haltingly. Leliana has a way of seeing to the quick of things. "I've given that up. Don't tell me you'd prefer I redirect my attention. I thought you cared about me."

"Do you think I give myself to anyone? Not so."

"That's a relief." Perspiration beads on her brow and for the moment she's unfocused. Then the sharp pain subsides and she can breathe again. "It's funny. You've got my head spinning but what do I know about you?" She cradles Leliana neck with her hand. "You're a complete mystery."

She lifts a hand, fingers skimming along Evelyn's. "Every girl needs her secrets."

"But that's all you are. I know your titles. Your heroic exploits." Leliana smiles wryly at that and Evelyn steps closer. She brings a hand to Leliana's stomach, feels the tension rippling through her at the contact. "You were hurt, weren't you? I felt your scar." She felt it in the dark, saw its shadow in the dim candlelight. "You said to me long ago that stomach wounds are particularly painful. You said it because you knew," she says realizing.

Leliana's fingers tighten along her own. "Each scar is a story, no? I don't tell stories anymore," she says regretfully.  _But it's your history._  Evelyn wants to say it but doesn't. She promised patience. "You have your own scars." She lifts, pressing her lips to Evelyn's cheek, to the corner of her mouth where her lips divot, where Josephine stitched her together. She frowns at the memory. "Is something wrong?"

She forces a laugh. "I was just thinking of when I returned from the trip to Ostwick. The trip was miserable. I thought it couldn't have gone any worse. The rift opening on the way back was the cherry on top of the cake." The demon slashed her face open. "I must have bled everywhere." She can almost feel Josephine's wrists, slender and trembling in her hands. She'd hummed. Evelyn feels a momentary flash of something painful. "Josephine took care of me." They avert their gaze. "Afterward she said you taught her."

Leliana looks at her again, thumb grazing along her lips, following the touch with a kiss. "And then what happened?"

Evelyn wonders if she's really forgotten or if she's playing coy, trying to get her version of events. It's possible she found her forgettable. "And then... we got back to Skyhold… You told me I was a spoiled noble who'd never accomplished anything on her own."

"That doesn't sound like me." Evelyn closes her eyes, focusing on Leliana's lips on her neck, the flush crawling up her cheeks. "What else?"

"You took one look at my face." Her mouth in particular had been swollen and red. "You said the stitches were crooked. I remember being…" Devastated. But she doesn't feel that now. "For weeks I—" Leliana's lips cover her own. Soon their arms are wrapped around each other. Is this a daydream? Some fever dream? Dorian tells her she's becoming forgetful.

They separate. Evelyn licks her lower lip. It's tender and she wonders if it's bruised from the night prior. Leliana presses a palm to her chest. "Forgive me?"

"Will you stop if I say yes?"

Another quick nip on the lips and she pulls away. "For now. We still have work to do, Inquisitor. But the night wraiths—we can haunt together now, yes?"

She smiles. "Is haunting all we'll do?"

"Oh?" Her eyes are bright with mischief. "What do you propose?"

"Talk?"

"You're a curious woman, Inquisitor."

"Will it always be 'Inquisitor'?" She thought she was through with trading in titles with her lovers.

"It is what you are. But I suppose I can say your name, can't I?" Evelyn waits for it but Leliana doesn't say it. "No doubt we'll find one another later on in the day. There are a few matters to discuss, but the most pressing is that spy, yes? I hope it won't be too much trouble."

"If he's one of Teagan's men what can we do?"

"We have options."

"Is there one in particular you have in mind?"

"You instructed me to keep the Inquisition safe. I'll do it, whichever way I can."

That cold feeling builds in her stomach. "I want you to look for other ways first."

"And if there are none?"

"Then we'll speak again and come to a decision."

Leliana's fingers curl, clasping over her heart. Their usual way of parting. Evelyn kisses her briefly. "Inquisitor."

* * *

Kirkwall is an ugly, dirty city but Lowtown is a particular culprit. Foundries and chimneys belch black swirls of coal upward and Josephine looks at it with distaste, missing the clear skies of Skyhold. Ash sifts down and she finds it in her clothing, smudging across her skin. The Breach, at least, has its own peculiar beauty. She finds little in Kirkwall to admire.

The city is in decay and she wonders if it was always such. Cullen walks beside her, telling her the history. "I'll admit, the templars focus wasn't so much on the city itself but on its mages. If you're looking for any particular stories, I'm afraid I don't have many to share."

"What a repulsive place," Vivienne wrinkles her nose, taking in the surroundings.

"Was it always this way?" Josephine asks him.

"Not that I ever saw. You lived in Lowtown when you made an earnest living and didn't have a noble title and the coin it afforded you to live in Hightown." He looks around, keeping his hand securely on the hilt of his sword. "This is hardly better than Darktown."

"I imagine the Viscount intends to blame this on the Champion."

"Certainly he'll try," Vivienne says, "not that I blame him. Had she kept her head and not been so reckless in her actions, Kirkwall might have been saved." Josephine doesn't know that she agrees. "Everyone knows what happened here. Blood magic was rampant. As I understand it, it even infiltrated the templars, did it not, Commander?"

Cullen looks at her cautiously. "There were stories of that," he says gruffly enough that Josephine detects there's truth to the rumor.

Vivienne struts as if she were walking down a palace ballroom, not a filthy run down city. "Perhaps the problem with Kirkwall wasn't that the templars were too harsh. Perhaps the trouble was that the templars tactics weren't harsh enough."

"You cannot be serious," Josephine looks sharply at her, "I have read the intelligence. I have read what Ser Alrik did," Cullen scowls, "and he was not the only one. Mages were made tranquil when they asked questions. They were made tranquil to be kept quiet! You would argue that is right?"

"I would argue that perhaps the intelligence you've read has a particular slant. The intelligence comes through Leliana, does it not? We all know where her loyalties lie. She's good at her work, my dear, but she is not objective, not in these matters."

"Forgive me for saying so, Lady Vivienne, but I don't understand your position. You're a mage yourself."

"Yes, and as such, I'm aware of exactly how dangerous we can be. Don't allow yourself to be fooled with stories of injustice. The Circles that rebelled have already shown they cannot be trusted to care about anyone other than themselves. If Thedas loses its grip on mages, we are one step closer to becoming Tevinter. Mages rule there and your kind, Lady Montilyet, lacking in magical capabilities, would be nothing. No titles, no material pleasures. Perhaps you'd be a slave."

She flushes. "I fail to see the relevance. It was my position that we should aid the mages in Redcliffe. Had we done so, perhaps this entire situation could have been avoided."

"Then I'm glad you were not so persuasive as you would have liked," she gracefully steps over a puddle of vomit.

"The Inquisitor made the right decision," Cullen growls. "Templars are best equipped to deal with both the Breach and the demons let loose on Thedas. Better templars, fighting back this darkness than mages, who are more vulnerable than ever to possession. Who knows what they might do unguarded?"

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Vivienne tells him, smiling broadly.

"They might enjoy a modicum of freedom," Josephine retorts. She has tired of the two and wishes Leliana were here to argue with her. Lowtown is filthy and she doesn't dare to step foot in Darktown, but surely things were not so miserable while Hawke was here. Perhaps, in her own peculiar way, she brought stability. If they seek to lay blame, why not look to the templars who abandoned Kirkwall after the explosion?

Cullen continues the tour, taking her to the docks, where the savage qunari attack originated after lying asleep for many years. She knows Evelyn is distrustful of the qunari but is unsure of whether it's their doctrine or their military history she takes issue with. Perhaps both. "So much blood spilled," Cullen grouses, "after it was over, I didn't imagine anything could top it."

"Hawke was here that night, was she not?"

"Yes. She allied with the templars to beat back the qunari. The Knight-Commander named her Champion that night."

"And this was  _after_  the previous Viscount had been killed? I believe she saved a Keep full of nobility, is that not correct?" Yes, she has a list of their names but there are others out there. She has relationships with some of them, others she knows through third parties. She spent some of the carriage ride to Kirkwall writing letters to them and the remainder she wrote last night after her dinner with Blackwall. The warden is surprisingly well behaved. Maybe nothing will come of them after all. She considered bringing him but didn't wish to subject him to Vivienne's tyranny.

Cullen scoffs. "It seems to me that you're asking questions you already know the answers to."

"You know why we are here, Commander. Whatever our personal feelings we must put them aside. We were given a directive."

"I have no personal feelings."

"No, she's right," Vivienne tells him, "it hangs over you like one of the ugly clouds blocking the sky in this 'fair' city. I don't disagree with your feelings, darling, but the Ambassador has a point. We must control ourselves at all times. We must hide everything we feel and reveal our true natures only when the time is right. We'll never get anything done otherwise."

Josephine looks at her but Vivienne's eyes are ahead. They're always further ahead, to another time, to another future. "Take me to the Gallows," she tells Cullen.

He obliges her and they move on their way. It would seem to her that she likes each part of this city less than the last.

* * *

Hawke is grateful when her body goes numb at last. She sits on the floor, leaning into the stone wall, as uncomfortable as she was when she first arrived. The cell is cold and dark. She used to visit Isabela here. Torches flicker on walls in the distance. She's watched them, having nothing else to do, no one else to talk to.

Her knees and knuckles throb and ache. Maybe it's from the low temperature or for sitting still for too long on uncomfortable ground. Or maybe it's too many injuries over the years. Maybe there's something that magic can't reach and heal, some lines it cannot bridge. She knows she's hungry. The hurt that yanked her stomach to her spine in some desperate search for a morsel found nothing and has since faded.

She gets angry when she thinks of how easy it would be to get out of here. Why are mages, more powerful than anyone, always made to feel lesser than? Pretend to be lesser than? To appease those that would hunt them? It isn't fair. It isn't right. How long will she be trapped? How long will she allow herself to be kept? Her head hurts. Why hasn't she been fed? Is this how the City Guard runs things these days? Where's Cassandra? How stupid to think that she would fight for her, stand up for her. She's a Seeker with an unfavorable opinion about mages and she's one of the most infamous mages in Thedas, blamed for the revolt of the Circles. They'll never work out, no matter how she wants them to.

Will they ever let her out? Was this a trick? Does the Inquisition intend to leave her in here?

She grunts and forces herself to her feet. She has no idea how much time has passed. A day? Longer? Shorter? She goes to the cell bars and holds on to them. "You can't bloody imprison me without trial," she calls out but doesn't know who, if anyone is listening. She's only seen a few other offenders come through, one who seemingly recognized her and spat in her direction. "Can you hear me? Guard!"

Where's Isabela when she needs her? She'd get them out of here the right way; commit crimes the right way, without magic. She rests her forehead against the bars, letting the cold penetrate her forehead, sinking deeper. She wonders, absently, what Tranquility feels like. Is it cold? A shiver goes through her thinking about it. She hears steps and lifts her head. "Hey!" She tries to peer around but it's impossible and it's far too dark. She's no longer sure if the steps were moving in her direction or the opposite way. "Guard! I want to see Aveline! You bloody let me see her!"

"Fine. Just shut up about it."

That voice. Hawke grips the bars and focuses on the darkness. Soon the figure emerges and Hawke's throat tightens. Her hair is still as bright as copper. She finds her eyes foolishly watering despite how dry her throat is. She swallows a few times, needing to be able to speak clearly. "Oh. Well, I wouldn't have shouted if I'd known it was you."

"It's never stopped you before." She reaches to her side and pulls out the ring of keys, looking at her long and steady. "I'm just trying to engrain this image into my mind."

What took her so long? Didn't anyone tell her? "If you'd have come a few minutes later you might have had another. My corpse, perished from starvation."

"It takes longer than that to starve someone to death."

"How would you know?"

"Basic education?" She slips the key into the door and turns the lock. For moments they stare at one another. "You look thin," she tells her worriedly. Hawke can't say anything. She stands still, her hands still shackled as Aveline comes forward and wraps her in a tight embrace. The armor hurts but it's comforting all the same. So many years, so many gone but Aveline remains. Aveline who has always given her better than she deserved. Hawke tucks her face into Aveline's neck and hears herself sniffling. "Come now," Aveline says, stroking her hair. "It'll all work out, you'll see."

* * *

The Gallows is deserted but all Josephine can see is the pulsing red lyrium statue of Knight-Commander Meredith. Cullen stiffens at the sight, his jaw clenching. Josephine takes in the massive golden statues, all of them taller than ten of her stacked together. Many have toppled over, others are contorted bizarrely. Some shield their eyes. Do they not wish to see? Are they weeping? Others faces are twisted as if in mid-scream. There is a quality to the air here that she does not like, an energy that is discomfiting.

She has read the stories of what happened here. Anders blew up the Chantry and in retaliation, Knight-Commander Meredith decided the Circle needed to be annulled. She looks at Cullen. His eyes are haunted. He's thinking of it, too.

"Look at her," Vivienne remarks as if commenting on a particularly breathtaking vista. "A pity that this is how she was repaid for trying to curtail the mage threat in Kirkwall." She looks to Josephine. "Let us not forget that the First Enchanter himself was a blood mage. How many mages did he kill in efforts to stop Knight-Commander Meredith? You can't very well call her paranoid when turning to blood magic and becoming an abomination was his response."

"We are not here to debate First Enchanter Orsino," Josephine says, making her way through the rubble, careful not to touch the small rivers of red lyrium that flow through the Gallows.

"No?" Vivienne asks. "Then ask yourself this, my dear. How much weight do you think the Viscount will grant your argument? That the fallout in Kirkwall was due to the Templars actions? It is your intended argument, isn't it? And a clever one. But you must be thorough. The fact remains that Hawke butted heads with Knight-Commander Meredith throughout the years and was a willing and eager servant to Orsino. You can hardly blame the girl but blame her you must. Her family didn't teach her any better, did they? Malcolm willfully ran from the Circle and raised his daughters as apostates. She involved herself with a man who agreed to host a demon in his body, a man who later killed hundreds when he intentionally blew up the chantry, killing Grand Cleric Elthina and hundreds of other innocents. She has kept the company of blood mages, abominations and terrorists. She may not be guilty of everything but she is no innocent either."

"I know how it sounds," Cullen says, "but it wasn't that simple. Kirkwall was overrun by refugees trying to escape the Blight and we had a Viscount more interested in saving political face than addressing the needs of the city. Fereldans were treated like vermin. They had no work and many turned to crime in order to survive. Meanwhile, the alienage had its share of elven apostates. No one liked going into the alienages and we had no elven templars to create a bridge."

"Of course not," Vivienne says with a roll of her eyes, "why pray to the Maker, when the mighty vhenadahl will take care of you."

"The elves distrusted us. They were oppressed more than anyone else in the city, tempers and hatreds grew…" He sighs. "And then the qunari started taking them under their wing."

Josephine crosses her arms as a cool breeze stirs. "It is evident that there were many issues at work in Kirkwall. But it is undeniable that magic was seen as a blight. Despite this, the templars left Kirkwall,  _you_  left Kirkwall, Commander."

"I won't deny that I've said… terrible things. I told Hawke—" he struggles. "I told her that mages were not to be treated like people. I didn't know what she was at the time." Vivienne glances at him. "It wasn't right. And it's true that I left Kirkwall. But only after order had been restored."

"But many templars followed, didn't they? They abandoned, Kirkwall."

"Yes, but not all. Some remain. I know that, though little more. I can't imagine them being the organized militia of before. Times are hard. Who knows how effectively they can patrol with no Knight-Commander or lyrium to keep them in order."

"So they may be roaming the streets, doing Maker knows what?"

"The Maker's work," he tells her pointedly. "Whatever you may think, whatever illusions you and Leliana have about the templar order, most of its members are good men and women. They're not there for power or accolades—they wish to serve both the Maker and the people of Thedas. They're there to protect mages and innocents alike."

"Keep saying it until you're blue in the face," Vivienne says. "No one listens. Not until it's too late."

Josephine ignores her. "Yet, isn't that the very reasons the templars rebelled and walked away from the Chantry? They did not think they were appreciated enough for their efforts, they did not feel they had received their proper accolades. The men and women who have  _not_  joined the Inquisition, where are they now? They walk with Samson and terrorize Thedas, butchering innocent mages and those that would harbor them. Is murder the proper response to not having their egos stroked to their satisfaction?"

"You do not know what templars suffer, my lady. Nor will you ever know the terror that mages can inflict on an unwilling subject. The templars sacrifice much so you don't know that horror. I suggest you don't take it lightly."

"In any case," she responds, grateful that she can keep her voice even, "we are due to meet with the Viscount. I have instructed the City-Guard Captain to arrange for the Champion's transport. Please do not bring up the plight of the templars when we are meeting with the—"

She stops, noticing that he is no longer paying attention. He cocks his head and she follows his gaze. Men and women carrying staffs walk out of gates where the Circle previously lay. Some wear hoods, others do not. Some, she recognizes, as Venatori. Others look more feral. She doesn't breathe. Vivienne narrows her eyes. Cullen brings a hand to the hilt of his sword. "You should leave, Ambassador," he tells her quietly. "Go. Now."

Josephine takes a step back. The mages approach like a slow wave. She turns and runs.

* * *

The air has grown unexpectedly cold despite the brightness of the sun. Hawke steps outside, lifting her shackled hands to shield her eyes. Cassandra remembers the Inquisitor making the same gesture long ago and hopes Hawke is moving towards a less precarious path. Hawke's fingers are blue, her nose red. She must be freezing. Cassandra hears the growl of her stomach.

Hawke lowers her hands and sees her, thinning her lips. Cassandra doesn't know what to say. "Can I go home now?" Hawke looks to Aveline. "Or to the Hanged Man—I don't know. I'd like a bath. I'd like something to eat." She shifts her attention to Cassandra. "I assume the Ambassador has resolved this." She looks at the shackles on her wrists and to Aveline. "You are planning on letting me out of these, aren't you?"

"Not yet," Cassandra says, careful not to reach out to Hawke and warm her hands. A few stragglers wander by and Cassandra lowers her voice. "We are to see the Viscount. The Ambassador believes your current presentation will work in our favor." Hawke scowls further. "She intends to say you were brought here without cause."

"I'm giving her until the end of today to resolve this," Aveline tells Hawke, "for your sake. After that, she's on her own. The City Guard will not have its reputation ruined for political gain." She touches the shackles. Hawke's wrists are raw. Aveline grimaces, pulling out a small key and loosening them. Hawke tries to tug her hands free but they're still much too tight. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few things to look after."

"Need any help?" Hawke asks.

Aveline's face softens. "I'd take you up on it if I could. It hasn't been easy here, Hawke. I know I gave you my share of grief but when you were here the people knew there would be a reckoning. The City Guard is all that's left to keep order and without any real templars to deal with the apostates that keep infesting this city—"

"I'm not sure I like that word, Aveline."

"Fine. Call it what you like. But you know how it was here. Something about Kirkwall draws a dangerous element. Particularly maleficarum. The guard has its hands tied. We're not equipped to fight that menace. It was bad enough with the Circle in place. It's worse than it's ever been but how do we fight them? They're not like you. They won't sit there and take it."

"I don't exactly have a choice, do I?"

Aveline shakes her head. "Your Seeker will take you up to the Keep."

"You're not coming?"

"No," she says tiredly. "I was told my presence would make the City Guard appear biased in your favor. Other officers will meet you once you arrive at the Keep but I'll see to you later, you have my word. Good luck. You," she looks at Cassandra, "take care of her." She leaves, moving with that same steadfast urgency.

Cassandra and Hawke regard one another warily. "Are you all right?" Cassandra asks. Hawke sighs, her shoulders slumping, stomach twisting with hunger once again. She looks off into the horizon. "I tried to get you out. I made every effort. I didn't know what to do so I found Aveline."

Some of the anger melts away to reveal a tired smile. "Is she everything you dreamed?"

"More." She pulls the thin red scarf from round her neck and drapes it over Hawke's shackles. It's little help but it's slightly less conspicuous that way. "I am glad you're out."

"For the moment."

"Were you able to rest?" Hawke shakes her head as if responding were too exhausting. Cassandra hooks her arm through hers and she doesn't know whether she means to trap or guide her, only feels Hawke stiffen before relaxing. "Josephine is spending the day touring Kirkwall with Cullen as her guide." A dip in Hawke's eyebrows but nothing spoken. "You have nothing to say?"

"You don't want to hear what I have to say."

"Please, Marian, I do not wish for us to fight. This situation is driving me mad. I haven't slept in days." Hawke looks at her only a moment and they push forward, Cassandra focusing on the inkling of warmth shared between them. "Won't you talk to me?"

"I'm not sure what to say that doesn't make me sound like a coward." She stumbles over a loose cobblestone but Cassandra tightens her hold and Hawke remains upright. Her face is flushed, either from cold or embarrassment. "I didn't want to come back here. Maker, look at it." Hawke squints her eyes. They glisten. "What the Void happened?" Cassandra has become accustomed to the disarray of the city, the blood that arcs along the alleywalls and stone steps. Hawke has had less time to take it in. "This isn't my city. Not anymore. I shouldn't have left."

"You tried to do the right thing."

"What does that matter when the result is  _this_?"

"This was not your fault. You know who is to blame."

Hawke's face goes redder. "My head hurts."

"Naturally. You have not slept and you're hungry. Unless you're going to try to blame it on me?"

"I haven't found a reason yet."

"I know this situation is frightening. Likely you feel alone but you are not. Aveline is with you. As am I." She exhales. "We have not spoken of what you overheard when I spoke to the Inquisitor. Prior to leaving for the Storm Coast." She didn't know what they were, she told Evelyn. She didn't know if they were real. It might be a mistake to speak of it. Perhaps it is best left forgotten but she hasn't forgotten.

"When you denied to the Inquisitor that you're madly in love with me, you mean?"

Cassandra's heart skips a beat despite her irritation. "That was not how the conversation went."

"You didn't deny it?" Cassandra sighs. "I could go on like this all day if I don't black out first from hunger."

She jokes but Cassandra reasons she must be weak. "I only meant what I said. I'm not sure what this is. I do not do this. I do not seduce my colleagues." As if she had the charm or wits for such things.

"You could have fooled me."

"Continue to mock me, if you must." Hawke's spirits seem improved and if a little goading is all she must deal with, Cassandra will happily agree. "Don't you have any feelings? Or thoughts," she adds quickly. Certainly they kiss enough, though they haven't in days. "I would like some clarity."

"Emotions are muddy and unclear on the best of days. I meant what I said in Halamshiral. You make me feel hopeful. I know we argue. I know we believe very different things but I…" the words lock in her throat as she looks around at the city. Is she thinking of Anders? Is she feeling guilty?

Her words trail off as a group of men and women bar passage. They seem to have come from nowhere. Hawke straightens and Cassandra feels her tugging away. She bumps into her and Cassandra realizes she's trying to get away. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. They don't wear armor but she's seen this look before—the look of a templar deprived of lyrium. This group is not as well maintained as Cullen and Evelyn. Their faces are gaunt and sweaty, their eyes sunken and the color of dull spoons.

"You return at last, Champion." One of them says. He holds a sword in hand and soon the rest of the group follows suit.

"Out of our way," Cassandra knows she must unsheathe her sword but all she can think about is how Hawke's wrists are shackled. "We are en-route to the Viscount."

"The Viscount doesn't rule here," a woman says.

She hears Hawke utter her name, a desperate frightened sound. Cassandra's yanked her blade free and the offending arm of a templar the next instant. There's a collective growl, tempered by the shrieking of the recently amputated man, holding his arm in horror, blood spraying like a geyser. It washes over her face and chest. Lowtown residents scramble to get away, doors slamming shut around them. Cassandra pushes Hawke back. "Go!"

Hawke looks from her to the group. She hesitates and it's all they need. Cassandra can't fight them all at once. Three rush past her. Cassandra turns to look at them and feels a bright flash of pain across her back. A fist pummels into Hawke's face and she goes down. One fierce kick after another. Hawke pulls into herself, bringing her shackled wrists to her face. "Fight them!" Cassandra tells her but she doesn't hear, doesn't believe her, maybe she can't manage. She doesn't have her staff. Maybe she fears her reaction if she obeys.

Cassandra lifts her shield, blocking the strike of a sword and slamming it to the right. There's a crack as she snaps her assailant's neck. He crumples.

She strides towards the remaining men and women. She can't hear what they're saying to Hawke, though she recognizes their tone, sees the hatred in their faces and the fear. This is what's wrong with the Chantry. This is how the Seekers failed. The templars were not curtailed. There was no oversight. She focuses on them. Maybe Hawke can't fight because they're using their capabilities. Maybe they have a little lyrium in their system. She finds it. It's been some time since she's used this 'gift' and she has never before used it on a templar. Not one of theirs.

She knows they feel it when they still and their faces pale. Soon they're screaming and clawing at their arms. She doesn't know what it is like to feel as if her blood is on fire but she imagines it's unpleasant. They pull at their arms, at their neck, trying to douse the fire, running frantically as if they could outrun it or douse it, but they cannot. They run until they buckle, pulling their arms and neck open, screaming as they roll around on the ground.

Perhaps the problem was that templars forgot why Seekers should be feared.

Cassandra goes to her. Hawke murmurs. Whispers. Does she pray? Her hands still cover her face. Cassandra kneels beside her, pulling them down. How long did they kick her? Her face is bloodied. Cassandra calls her name but she doesn't hear her, her eyes stare off to another place. Cassandra taps her face gently until her muttering ceases and she looks at her. Cassandra touches her face gingerly. A weight settles over her heart. Once again, she was helpless.

* * *

Leliana sits in the chantry, gazing at the statue of Andraste, marble hands outstretched and holding fire. Andraste was killed compassionately, a spear thrust through her heart. Perhaps that is why she and her agents kill in the same way. Maybe she's only fooling herself.

The Magister Erasthenes has expired. They learned little more than they already knew but they have to be thorough. If he suffered a few days longer to save the Inquisition and Thedas, it's worth it. She has to be pragmatic about these things. Emotion won't serve them. It's another name on a list, another crack in her conscience, another obstacle to prevent her from standing at the side of the Maker. That's all.

The trouble is the Chantry. It breeds fear, which in turns breeds drastic actions, creating even more fear and escalating chaos. What's needed is growth. Openness. Acceptance. A willingness to branch away from tradition. They must be inclusive. It's their arrogance and obsession with being superior that got them where they are. They loathed her for her 'vision' didn't they? But why? Because she was new to the faith and He chose her? It was a lie, it's true, but shouldn't they have been happy that the Maker had touched someone? That the Maker had offered hope? But they weren't happy. They deemed her unworthy of His love. They were jealous and so they resented her.

She worries about the Inquisitor, so eager to serve that Maker who can be cruel, the Chantry that can so manipulate His word to serve their purposes. Belief can be easily abused. She stares at the statue of Andraste, no longer sure if she seeks anything. What can she ask for that she'll get? That she deserves? Absolution? No. She prays for Justinia, hoping her prayers will make their way to her dear friend. What would she think of her now? Justinia understood her better than anyone. They shared so much more than Marjolaine. She was a confidante. She was a pillar. She was her creator in many ways, wasn't she? But no, she'd hate that thought.

She stands, leaving the chantry and contemplating their enemy. Turning Calpernia against Corypheus is imperative. But who should guide that process? Calpernia wants to make Tevinter great again. She's leading a slave rebellion. It'd be admirable if she weren't following the wrong leader. The woman is a mage. Perhaps Dorian could begin negotiations? But his family has long owned slaves. Slavery is normalized there. Her agitation mounts. There must be a path forward but how? Is it as simple as getting the information to her and letting Calpernia decide for herself?

What she wouldn't give for a glass of wine and the Inquisitor's gaze. It's easy to get lost in memories. It's easy to remember her touch. So long had passed since she'd taken a lover. If anyone had told her she'd involve herself with the Inquisitor she would have laughed. And here they are. Leliana has not missed that small flicker of fear in her eyes. Love has not been kind to the Inquisitor, nor to her. Perhaps they can be kind to each other and that will be enough to get them through.

In the meantime, Bann Trevelyan will continue to be watched. The Inquisitor once said her family would do anything for status. Now is the perfect opportunity to pull ahead, what with the Chantry in disarray and so many shifting pieces. She doesn't doubt the man would say whatever is necessary for his personal advancement, including disparaging his daughter. He always regarded Evelyn as a disappointment. Many hope the Inquisition will be short lived. If they manage to tear Evelyn Trevelyan down, the Inquisition will go with it. Being relegated to obscurity would be a fate worse than death. At least martyrs incite the people and spur change. Of course, that's no option. The thought alone makes her queasy.

She marches down the halls and outside. She won't go to the dungeons. They don't take their prized captives there. She moves to the stables, the horses turning their head to follow her, no doubt expecting the usual treat and brushing she gives them when she comes by. She opens the gated door of her preferred steed, giving him small pets and saddling him before leading him out of the stable. She climbs up, flicking the reins gently. She moves towards the gates, surprised when she sees the Inquisitor in conversation with Ser Delrin Barris. The Inquisitor shakes her head and he nods before moving on his way.

It's impossible to slip past her now and Leliana isn't sure she wants to try. Her eyes are stony but soften upon seeing her. Leliana tugs gently on the reins of the horse, looking down at her. "Have you found someone else to argue with now that I won't do?"

"Who says you won't do?" She smiles grimly. "I've just received word of Erasthenes." She sighs but doesn't elaborate further. Leliana wonders if those deaths weigh on her as they do her. "Ser Barris tells me our lyrium supply is leaner than we'd like."

"These are lean times, Inquisitor."

"We can't afford our templars going without. Not while we fight red templars and Venatori. It's dangerous." She can't meet Leliana's eyes. Leliana watches the Inquisitor search desperately for something to catch onto before returning her gaze to her. "I think he knows about me."

"Perhaps." But she hopes not.

She takes a breath. "Where are you off to? I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination. You never leave Skyhold."

"You just haven't caught me. I have a light step."

"Mh." A beat. "You didn't answer my question."

"You've noticed, have you? If you must know, I'm going to visit our elven friend and see what has come of our talks." She sees her trying to puzzle it out. "I won't be long."

"I'll join you."

"That's not necessary."

"I'll join you," she repeats and Leliana knows she has no choice in the matter.

"Fine. But you're riding in the back." Evelyn takes hold of the saddle and climbs behind her. Leliana waits for her arms to circle around her waist but they don't. She turns her head to look at her. "Are you planning on staying on the horse with the mighty power of your thighs alone? Should I be frightened?"

"Why?" Leliana arches an eyebrow and the Inquisitor's face reddens. "We're out here, you know. Outside?"

"Oh? You mean we're not indoors?"

"There are people out here."

"And the sky is blue. Rain falls down, not up and—" she sees Evelyn's frustration. "Are you worried that they'll see us? Or are you worried that I'm not the one in the back, like one of your delicate flowers?" Evelyn scowls. "I don't care who sees us. Just try not to gawk so much." She gives the reins a tight snap and the horse begins a jaunty gallop. Evelyn's hands come lightly to her waist. Barely there. "Are you so shy around horses? I don't recall such shyness in the dark, Night Wraith."

"What a cute nickname."

Leliana laughs. "You want a cute nickname?" The horse moves past the gates and she gives the reins another flick, sending the horse into a gallop.

The Inquisitor's shyness evaporates, arms sliding around her waist, holding tight. "I didn't say that." She raises her voice. "Anyway, isn't it a bit early for nicknames?"

"Nonsense. It's never too early for that." They called her Herald not long after meeting her, after all.

"It's just that I'm beginning to wonder whether you actually know my name."

"You're pretty. Do I need to know your name?" she expects an argument but doesn't get it. A glance back and she sees a slight smile on her lips. They continue on their path and though Leliana wants to ask about her father, she decides to keep the question to herself.

The horse speeds past Inquisition soldiers, some in the organization's armor, other agents in nondescript everyday wear. She wonders if they should take a detour. Wander close to a stream and talk there, or kiss, spend more time exploring each other's bodies. Leliana is eager to return the Inquisitor's courtesy. She is unsure of what will happen in that small cabin. The floorboards have taken on a red tinge despite having been scrubbed clean many times.

Perhaps she worries over nothing. The Inquisitor doesn't have Josephine's inexperience with combat, nor does she have Cassandra's moral purity. Leliana climbs down from the horse. It's windy and grey. The cabin's windows are shuttered.

"What is this place?" she asks.

Leliana doesn't answer. She moves toward the cabin and enters. It smells of sweat, piss and blood. She makes no expression but sees the Inquisitor's nose crinkle before her face goes blank. The prisoner sits, hands and legs shackled to a sturdy wooden chair. He looks small despite his swollen face and bloodied hands. The Inquisitor studies him and Leliana wonders if she looks at his blond hair gone brown with blood, the split lips, the missing fingernails.

The Inquisitor is pale. Pale for her.

The agent, a young elven woman, stands, leaving the small wooden table she sits beside with a tray of bloodied tools. She clasps a hand over her heart to the Inquisitor and leaves the cabin when Leliana looks at her. She's reported nothing which means Soldrian has been uncooperative. A cool gust of wind penetrates the room. There's little light. A long silence follows.

The Inquisitor, appearing dazed, regains her senses. "Who are you?" Her voice is scratchy like sandpaper. He frowns, the bloom of red in the whites of his eyes paling next to their glint in the darkness. "Why did you come here?" He says nothing. The Inquisitor looks at her uncertainly.

Leliana steps forward. "You know who I am, yes?" His nostrils flare but he looks away. She takes his face in her hand, mindful not to lose a finger. She leans in close and forces him to face her. "I am Leliana. Others know me as Sister Nightingale. I know where you're from. Denerim. I passed through there years ago when I helped the Warden end the Fifth Blight." Her fingers dig and he makes an ugly gasping sound. Others have delusions about who she is, forgetting that people change. These times are different than the last. They are not so straightforward as a Blight. They cannot afford honor. "Tell me who you're working for and I'll release you. You have my word."

He glowers, looking past her to the Inquisitor. Tears wet his eyes. They spill, leaving streaks down his face. It isn't sadness she sees when he looks at him. Perhaps that's where it originated but it has gone far past it, towards rage.

"Don't look at her," Leliana says, "look at me." Her voice is soft and melodic. He tries to yank away his shackled wrists but gets nowhere. Leliana releases him. "I'll tell you what I do know. Your name is Soldrian. You were born in the Denerim alienage but emigrated to Redcliffe shortly after the Blight. I don't blame you. That was a good time to go. Redcliffe was a small village then and their gates were open. There were few templars and you wanted to hide your daughter there." The Denerim alienages are notorious for the injustices elves face. They're not even allowed weapons. "She's an apostate," she tells the Inquisitor.

"Your daughter's an apostate?" The Inquisitor moves closer. "How old? What's her name?"

He struggles, his cheek twitching. He swallows hard and when he speaks his words are overwhelmed with emotion. "Sixteen. Her name was Samira." He starts crying. Leliana finds a bloodied rag in a bucket of water and tries to wipe his face. He rears back like a wounded animal. "Fuck you. Fuck you and your whore Inquisition!" He spits. A glob of bloody saliva hits her cheek. She withdraws, wiping her cheek and tossing the rag back into the bucket. He screams, wailing as if he were being tortured and maimed.

The Inquisitor looks at her and they move outside. It's started to rain, light, but storm clouds are moving in quickly. Thunder cracks. "What evidence do you have against this man?" Her anger is palpable. "What answers are you trying to get?"

This was what she worried about. This is why she didn't want her to come. "One of our agents—the one you saw earlier—befriended him. He asked her to pass along correspondence."

"And?"

"And he'd written—to some unnamed figure—about the Inquisition's numbers. Our food stocks and where we keep them. Our soldiers. Our templars. He wrote about you. He wrote that you have looked unwell. He hoped someone would finish the job." She looks furious but Leliana doesn't know at whom. "Whatever you think, Inquisitor, we cannot appear divided in front of him. We cannot appear divided in front of anyone outside of our circle."

"I don't want  _this_ ," she jabs a finger at the cabin, "happening in the Inquisition."

"Don't be so naïve. How do you think we get our intelligence? By being polite? By offering coin? No, sometimes pain and fear are the only motivators. This is my duty, Inquisitor. It's ugly and I don't like it but let me do it." A beat. Why does she look at her as if she never knew this about her? "This is why I did not wish for you to see."

"I need to know what's going on."

Leliana clenches her jaw. "You do not wish to know this side of me."

"I wish to know all of you." She pushes a hand back through her hair. "Are you all right?" She reaches a hand out and reflex makes Leliana dodge it. The Inquisitor looks away as if she's been chastised.

"I'm sorry." She hasn't been questioned, not since the beginning of the Inquisition. This will take getting used to. Leliana takes her hand. "Are you sure you won't return to Skyhold? I can do this on my own." It would be better on her own.

"I'm sure."

"Then let's finish this," she says quietly, releasing her hand. They go back inside. Rain is leaking through the roof of the cabin. Soldrian sits with his chin tucked into his chest. "Are you through?" He lifts his head, breathing raggedly. "We know you're working for the Arl." They only suspect it, truthfully. All evidence points to it. "What we don't know is why. Has he promised to keep your family safe?" she sinks down, looking up at him. Teagan won't keep his family safe.

"Where's Samira?" The Inquisitor asks.

He looks at her. His lower lip trembles. "You pretend to care?"

"I do care."

He laughs bitterly. "She was young. She was inspired. She wanted to join you. She was petrified when the Venatori moved into Redcliffe. We hoped the Inquisition would come but you never did. I gave up all the coin I had to get her out. We left in the night and walked until daybreak. We found templars. Your templars. By one of your flags. They said they would take care of her. They said you took in anyone." He licks his cracked lips. Snot runs down his nose. "I wanted to keep her safe. I didn't want her out there with those maniacs. The Inquisition was doing good. I thought she would be safe. I went back to my family. Not a few days later I went out. Scavenging for food. We didn't have any coin, you see. We'd given up everything. I found her… The way I found her…" He whimpers. Leliana looks at the Inquisitor, sees how she shakes. "You said you were an end to the chaos and cruelty of this world." He yanks against his restraints, his voice rising, spit dribbling out of his mouth. "Venatori take you! Corypheus take your Inquisition!"

Leliana frowns.

He continues to pull, cutting into his wrists and ankles. "You think it's just me but we're everywhere, biding our time. Take another nail. Take my limbs and tongue. I'll tell you nothing." He smiles, a mirthless, bloody grin, "But I'll tell all of Thedas about you. I'll tell them what the Inquisitor allows. I'll tell them you're tyrants pretending to do the Maker's work. The Inquisition and the demons it harbors won't last!" Leliana withdraws the dagger at the small of her back. She hears the Inquisitor's objection. "I won't let you take me! Samira. I'll see you soon."

He bites down hard. A river of blood spills out of his mouth. The Inquisitor goes to him but doesn't know what to do. She puts her hand over his mouth but doesn't know how to stem the flow of blood. "Help him!" she says.

Leliana moves her aside, taking his face, bleeding and disfigured with fear. "You poor man. May you walk at the side of the Maker." She positions the tip of the dagger over his heart and slips it in. It's been some time since she's done this personally. She'd forgotten the necessary pressure, the energy required to take a life. It's more than words or orders. Maybe he hears the words. Maybe he doesn't. He convulses, arms and legs kicking before he stills.

And then it's quiet and the only thing to be heard is the rain pattering against the barricaded windows and roof, the trickle of blood tapping on the floor, the Inquisitor sniffling and failing to stop her tears. Leliana withdraws the blade from his heart, wiping the blood off on her pant leg and sheathing it again. The Inquisitor's hands are bloodied. She wipes at the tears on her face, smearing blood in the process.

Leliana feels a pang of sympathy. She approaches tentatively. These things happen. These things have always happened. Too often. To her. Perhaps to the Inquisitor. She hoped the Inquisition would be better but wasn't it the Maker's same spark, given to his creations, that made them fallible? There's no comfort in it. She could question the words of a dying man, but why bother? The templars have always had a particular reputation, a dark secret that Seekers sometimes brought to light and punished. But the Seekers have lost their way and the templars are once again without accountability. Why expect the behavior to stop now? They've gathered templars from all over Thedas. Some are no doubt continuing their traditions. It makes her ill.

"You killed him."

Yes. Doesn't she know that she's death incarnate? "We couldn't have saved him." The time they would have needed to find a mage or a doctor… he would have bled out long before they returned here. "It was mercy." The Inquisitor wheezes, a hand over her heart. She puts a hand to the wall and leans back against it, heaving for breath, squeezing her eyes tight. Is this lyrium withdrawal? No, it's something else. Leliana takes the hand she has clutched to her heart and holds on to it. "It's all right. I'm here. Breathe, Inquisitor. Breathe."

She opens her eyes. Minutes pass. Eventually the awful sound fades and she gulps air into her lungs, her chest falling and rising normally. She exhales shakily.

Leliana kisses the tears at the corner of her eyes. "We'll search our ranks. We'll weed it out," she tells her. "Ser Barris will help. Cullen. Cassandra. You. It will not stand. I promise." She draws the Inquisitor to her, relieved when she leans into her. Perhaps she hasn't frightened her completely. Her tears are hot against her neck. This is why the Circles and Templars must be abolished. No one order with limitless power over a marginalized group can ever be fair. If the Chantry teaches that mages are lesser, than those templars, leashed to the chantry and with power over mages, will treat them as lesser.

They should have gone to the mages in Redcliffe and allied with them instead. It might have resolved the Teagan issue as well. Leliana keeps the thoughts to herself, focusing instead on the sensation of her robes pulling tighter around her as the Inquisitor's fingers unknowingly squeeze. There are enemies amongst them. She wonders if her work will ever be done. She wonders if this death was just. If she'll ever walk at the side of the Maker. Or will she wander on her own? The Nightingale, singing her sad song with nobody to listen.


	29. Fear

The potions have taken the swelling down but reduced his stomach to a pit of fire. Cullen clutches a hand to his belly, staggering another few steps. For a moment he fears he'll retch again. His face is flushed and bruised, sweat dripping down his face. He holds to the alley wall, fingers curled tight. Vivienne scolded him earlier.  _Just let me finish the work, Commander. It is the very least I can do._

But Vivienne suffered enough of her own injuries at the hands of those apostates. It was a bitter fight and they ran, finding a frightened Josephine at the docks. He told her to escape but how? They jumped into the small boat on the turbulent waters, he and Josephine grabbing an oar and rowing for their lives while Vivienne placed protection spells. They bled, their breathing labored.

The mages walked to the edge of the Gallows, lobbed fireballs in their direction and watched them go. They've reclaimed the Gallows.  _For Hawke!_  One of them said. Not a Venatori. Another one. Does the Champion know? What has she begun?

Vivienne and Josephine have returned to the inn and Cullen wrote a hasty note in shaky hand, sending a bird to Skyhold. He prays it isn't shot down. He prays it gets there soon. He's never been at such a disadvantage. They must have known who they were. They let them go. But why? He doesn't trust it. He doesn't trust them. That cold anger settles over him, that loathing that twists like a snake inside of him. Monsters. They're monsters.

No. He's afraid. Nothing more.

His body shakes for lyrium. He took a handful of mages but Vivienne did the majority of the heavy lifting. They were overwhelmed. He can't remember the last time he felt so useless. Once again he debates whether ceasing lyrium is the proper course. The chantry has no leash on him now. If it will make him focused… if they've got their own supply, why not? Why not taper off after the Inquisition has won?

Josephine asked him to meet her at the Keep. He doesn't trust himself to go. To say something that will undo the very purpose they were sent here for. He finds himself at the Blooming Rose. The banners are tattered, the wooden sign having lost one its hingers, swinging and squeaking from the thin beam that holds it. Cullen looks around for any he might recognize and entering when he sees no one. He never came here before. Meredith would have killed him if she knew. Oh, the others went. It was an open secret. He never saw the need and at the time he was under a slew of romantic notions that he would meet the right person and… In any case, he needs a beer.

He walks further in. The establishment looks run down and he sees the men and women turn their attention to him. Do they know who he is? He sits at the bar and orders a beer. A weathered man stands in the corner, grey haired and unshaven, rubbing his eyes. He takes one look at him and scowls.

Is Madam Lusine still here? He has a few beers. Their Inquisition soldiers remain on the outskirts of Kirkwall. He ought to call them in. From his understanding, Hawke and Cassandra have also had a hard time of it. Perhaps returning here was a mistake. He scratches his beard and grimaces. The inside of his mouth remains tender. Someone sits next to him and he looks to the side. An elven man with a cocky smile. "Please tell me you're looking for company. It's been a while since we've had a handsome one like you come through."

Cullen's startled. "I'm here for a drink. Nothing more."

"What a shame," he makes a face. "Why are the handsome ones always boring? Probably because they never had to develop their personality, am I right?" He taps the bar, signaling a beer. "Look, we're here to make a living and since the templars ran out of town it's been hard. Or not hard. Enough." He laughs, pleased at himself. "Send a little business our way. It's the least you can do."

"I'm not interested."

The elf sighs, snaps his fingers. Cullen follows his gaze. A group of women have lined themselves out before him. "We're not doing well enough anymore to offer premium service. All the nobles got scared off when the chantry went boom. It's on the cheap and it's good, I promise." Cullen looks at the women. They all look familiar. All of them so familiar. They look at him with interest before quickly turning their eyes away, their cheeks burning. Cullen rises from the stool and looks at them. Young girls. Older women, hair gone grey. "Don't be put off by the older girls," Jethann tells him, "they know all the best tricks. Or maybe it's not the girls you want."

Cullen walks the line. He knows these women. He stops in front of one, hair the color of spilled wine, eyes like ice, cheeks flushed darkly. Her name escapes him. She was locked away. A blood mage sent to the Circle by Hawke. A woman who intended to infest the templars with corruption. "I'll take this one," Cullen says to the elf. The woman looks frightened. Jethann looks between the two of them uncertainly. Cullen reaches into his coin purse, withdrawing several silvers, extending them forcefully. "You wanted business," he tells him.

"You're a templar," he says, squinting at him. "I see it now. Not getting enough of the juice." He flicks a hand to the girls and they scatter. "Madam Lusine didn't leave this place to me so I could let the girls be taken advantage of. Not like that, anyway. Go away, templar. We don't need your coin."

"I just want to talk to her!"

"Then leave your sword here and talk to her." Jethann tells him evenly. Cullen glowers. There are guards in black armor, gleaming like oil. Cullen undoes his sword belt, yanking the sword free and thrusting it at Jethann. "No need to be so rough. Unless you want to take me upstairs?" Cullen's jaw tightens. "Fine. Idunna, dear. Take this grumpy templar up."

"I'm not—"

Jethann waves him away. "Don't worry," he tells her, "I'll send the Viscount's men to guard the door. Just give a little holler and we'll throw him out like any other thug."

Idunna returns and he stares down at her though she won't look at him. They climb the steps together. The red carpet has frayed and faded. As promised the Viscount's guards follow. Cullen reasons one set of their armor could cover the cost of five of the city guard. Why are they here? They arrive at the door and Idunna's fingers shake as the fidgets with the lock to the door. Cullen considers saying something reassuring but nothing comes to mind. Maybe he has no wish to reassure her.

They enter the room and he shuts the door behind him. He's embarrassed to be in this room with the red silk sheets and canopied bed. Idunna stands stiffly, her fingers clenched tightly around her dress, that's seen better days. He huffs, frustrated, something more. She's apprehensive. "Should I undress?" she asks shakily.

The question surprises him. He doesn't respond. Her fingers go to the front of her dress, to the laces of the bodice, beginning to tug them free. He watches for seconds, seeing a flash of her pale skin as she begins to draw the material down. "No. Stop." He can't say please. She stops. He has no sword but he has belts. His hands. How many men did this woman ruin for some secret agenda to destroy the templar Order?

"You wanted to speak to me."

"I know who you are."

"Yes." The terror in her eyes.

Yes. They always said 'yes' easily enough. He heard those stories. He didn't want to believe them. The ones he caught in the act were disciplined. The others, the rumors… those were never investigated thoroughly. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. "The Champion didn't kill you. She gave you to us." Not that he's one of them anymore. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Liar."

"I don't know," she says more desperately this time. "Please. I'm different. I'm… no longer what I was—"

"You're an apostate. You can't change that. You'll never change that."

"I found the Maker."

"And now you're a whore."

Her eyes water. Her tears are reassuring. They make him feel safe. They both tremble. "I had no choice. The Circle was angry. They wanted blood. The templars wanted blood. You left and everyone else followed. The templars who remained weren't united. They fought. You didn't protect us. No one did," she swallows. "It wasn't long before the mages fought back and took over. But it wasn't enough. Disagreement was no longer an option. Mages were turning against mages. I didn't want to fight. The girls downstairs didn't want to fight. But what were we supposed to do? Before the Circle, this is all I knew. And those girls and women who were born and raised there… and don't know anything about fighting… Should we have gone out for a war we never wanted? Should we have died for a principle? For ideals?" Her chin quivers. "You would mock them? The senior enchanters who gave the templars such kindness? When the laws of the Chantry gave them no opportunity to learn a trade, to learn to live outside Circle walls? So yes, we whore. The way we 'whored' in the Circle. But this time willingly and for coin instead of our lives. Isn't that less shameful than using our 'gifts' to kill? Or does all of this, between mages and templars lose its charm when you have a willing participant, Knight-Captain?"

The words leave him cold. The warmth that had infused him receding painfully. He turns and exits, taking the stairs down quickly, snatching his sword away from Jethann. He can't stay any longer. He fears what he might do.

* * *

It is as Josephine expected: she arrived late and the Viscount will not see her. It might have been possible had she not rushed back to the inn to see to her appearance. Arriving as she was when she left the Gallows was not a possibility. Her hair was a fright and her dress was ruined. In some cases never is better than late.

She slows when she sees the captain of the guard barrel her way. She tenses. "Where is Hawke?" they say at the same time. Josephine continues. "I expressed to you and Cassandra how important it was that she be in attendance."

"So you say. But I noticed you weren't here at the appointed hour. Hawke was on her way. You were meant to resolve this." She clenches her jaw. "I won't return her to the brig. I gave you one day and it was not settled."

"We were delayed. Attacked in the Gallows that is overrun by apostates." There is only a gentle sloping of her brow. "Ah. So you knew this was a possibility and made no mention of it."

"I've heard stories… Kirkwall has always been dangerous, Ambassador. Nowhere in Thedas is safe anymore. The city-guard does what it can… but I'm sorry if you faced any difficulty." She sighs. "Are you all right?"

"They allowed us to escape but more than anything, I believe it was a message, that they rule this city now. Not the Viscount. Not the city-guard. How have you allowed such a thing to transpire?"

Aveline's eyes darken. "We're the city-guard. We're not templars. We're not equipped to deal with their kind and I won't send my men and women out there to die like dogs in order to keep my reputation. For the most part, they leave us alone."

"For the most part," Josephine says dryly. "If you see Lady Pentaghast or the Champion, I hope you'll direct them to me. Honestly, I cannot imagine what they are doing." Does no one take her suggestions seriously?

She leaves the Keep, head held high. She has no wish to argue with Aveline. In any case, her feet ache. Blackwall waits outside the doors. She is relieved to see him but agitated that Cullen did not present himself. She will take his company to Vivienne's, who might openly suggest her very presence is a danger to the Viscount.

Her heart has not settled since the attack at the Gallows. The sea water splashed onto her shoes and dress as Cullen cut the rope away and practically dove into the small boat. She worked to pick up an unwieldy oar and do her part to get them back to the docks of Kirkwall. The Inquisition has been a frightening experience. She believes in the freedom of mages. And yet…

The matter is confounding. There were a considerable number of mages at the Gallows. Not all Venatori. Why are they there? Why have they been allowed to remain? Are they terrorizing Kirkwall? And why has Bran insisted that Hawke return when a very real threat exists in the city? She knows the Viscount's refusal to see her is a slight meant to throw her. And now she has been given a new audience date, several days from now. He means to waste their time. It will give her more opportunity to present a better argument but staying in Kirkwall for so long makes her ill. Further, the city is far more dangerous than she imagined. She's grateful for the soldiers Evelyn sent. Why is it that she favors force only when she feels frightened? Would Evelyn think her selfish? She thinks of the Inquisitor taking her wrist and pressing a kiss to it. She stings at the memory.

Blackwall clears his throat. It was foolish for her to consider his feelings and Vivienne's during the tour of Kirkwall. Would things have turned out differently if he had been with them? Still, they were drastically outnumbered. Perhaps all that might have happened would have been that Vivienne and Blackwall killed one another instead of the attacking apostates.

"Are you all right, Lady Montilyet?"

No, she is not all right. Their plans are in disarray, her reputation and the reputation of the Inquisition are in disarray. The longer this matter is delayed the less likely her success. And the last thing she wants is to return to Skyhold to face the Inquisitor's anger and disappointment. This is an impossible situation. "I am fine," she tells him tersely. "I was not under the impression I would need an armed guard to wander this city."

"You sound vexed. And here I thought this was the best part of our visit."

Her smile is thin. "That surprises me." She is no Grey Warden, after all. He must have fellow Wardens he can better relate to. Further, he has made no advances on her. Is he so noble? Perhaps she is wrong to wish for excitement with him. Perhaps it's best to find it with someone else. The thoughts depress her. She has already resigned herself to a life of marriage and with so few experiences to go into it with. She focused so much on academia, diplomacy, fashion and protocol that she forgot to live deliciously. "Surely you find me dull."

"Why would I?" He looks at her, thinking, before his eyes narrow.

It flusters her. Does he think she is speaking down to him? Is she speaking down to him? "We have so little in common. It isn't only a matter of our stations. Though it matters… not as much as I initially suggested." Evelyn is a noble. Did she just want a  _better_  one?

"And is irrelevant, given your engagement."

"Yes." Her throat is dry. They continue.

"That isn't to say that I don't admire you. I do. The work you do for the Inquisition is of great importance. I know it must sound strange coming from a man such as myself—but people are often hasty to use violence as their first resort, not the last. Too often we leap before looking. If more had your temperament, we could get far without a needless waste for life."

"Oh. That is very kind of you to say."

"And once again you sound surprised, my lady."

She sighs. "To be honest, I find myself less and less relevant in this Inquisition. I suppose that sounds vain. We are doing well. Quite well, in fact. And between the two of us, part of me wonders if we have only been sent on this errand to stop those who would even think of interfering with us. Questioning us." She looks at him, looking for some reaction or judgment but there isn't any. "The Inquisitor has placed a considerable responsibility on me."

"You'll see it through."

"I hope so. So much has already veered off course. Kirkwall is… difficult. It is a city that faced unspeakable cruelty on behalf of the templars. Yet no one can ever criticize the templars," she complains. "But our dear E—Inquisitor… she has her obvious ties. Further, she went and declared herself an Inquisitor of the faith. And now Leliana has her ear."

"I'm not certain whether you're worried or jealous."

"The Inquisition has never been a symbol of peace. I worry for those that use the Maker's name to accomplish any matter of things. Usually by employing violence.  _However_ , apostates are dangerous. I have barely escaped with my life on a handful of occasions. The templars, have fulfilled to  _me_  their obligation. I have been kept safe." Evelyn kept her safe." But I am no mage, and their treatment of apostates is another matter altogether. Kirkwall is notorious for being a refuge for blood mages." Another sigh. "The Inquisitor has had her… encounters. Particularly in Crestwood and I..." she stops. It isn't her place to say. "I worry about reporting what happened here. I fear her response."

"You don't trust the Inquisitor?" he's puzzled, perhaps offended.

"You misunderstand." She isn't sure that he has. "I only meant that we should use reason and compassion to dictate our policy. Not fear. Not force."

"You think the Inquisitor disagrees?"

"I think you wish to put words in my mouth."

"You mentioned Leliana has her ear. And I haven't forgotten that you and the Inquisitor were involved. Do you think she's no longer open to discourse?" Josephine does not know. "I hope the Inquisitor is not so foolish."

"Well, I am afraid she can be quite foolish." She did throw her to the side, after all. She's irritable. Is it as Leliana said and the Inquisitor only ever listened to her because of her involvement? She fears what will happen if it's Leliana talking in her ear. Leliana is one for drastic measures. They're both bound by their faith. Cullen was a templar. Maker, what a mess she has created. What little influence she had is no doubt gone. They walk further. Most of the merchant's stalls have closed for the night. "In any case, I worry that if I fail here, I'll have no place in the Inquisition. It isn't that I think the Inquisitor will necessarily discharge me," she says before he can ask. Though she isn't sure that she wouldn't. "But I joined the Inquisition to affect change. To have a voice. If I cannot do that then… I can be replaced."

"You're joking."

"No, it's true." Both Leliana and Evelyn have said that to her, haven't they? "It won't be so bad. I have no doubt the Inquisitor and the Inquisition will resolve this war: one way or another. I will return home and settle my family affairs. I will marry Adorno. It will… it will be a simple life."

"You say that as if it were a punishment."

She laughs. "Forgive me. I am only tired after the events of today." He looks as if he feels sorry for her. "Do you know that when I was younger, I imagined all nobles were like my mother and father. They met while young and got swept up into some passionate affair. They married and had beautiful children…"

"Did they ever."

She smiles. "It was not my wish to disappoint them. So I went out and excelled. I went out and wished for more, even when they made no indication that this was their expectation." It was an obsession. "The more nobles I met, the more I realized that they were unhappy. There are rules to nobility. Not quite as many rules as the Game, but enough to make things difficult. So they look to other ways to entertain themselves and be happy. I was determined to not be the same. My love would be real and unblemished." She cannot look at him. "It shames me to say it, but I was not kind to the Inquisitor. I wanted… I don't know what I wanted. More. I wanted more." More status? More love? More devotion? More gestures? "And I was convinced that what she wanted was not in my power to give." There's a beat and she sighs. "I did not wish to risk my reputation, nor the reputation of my family, so I kept her a secret." There are other things but she cannot voice them. "I sometimes wonder if I am a miserable person and if I will ever be satisfied."

They stop at the inn.

"You are not a miserable person," he tells her. He takes her hand, holds it and looks into her eyes before releasing it, bashful. "I know it can't be easy to talk about. And I'm … flattered that you've chosen to share any of it with me. I can't say that I know this Otranto fellow. Saw him a bit around Skyhold. Prettier than me."

She's surprised that she can laugh after the day she's had, after the things she's said, after the uncertain future. "But you're more handsome. And courageous. And noble." Another wistful sigh. "I wish I could be the same."

"I'm not certain I'm any of those."

"In any case, I am pleased you found me on the way to the Keep. I am happy for your company. I am always …" She bows her head. "I must seem to you a dishonorable woman."

"No. And believe me, I'm not as honorable as you think."

"You're a Grey Warden. No one doubts your honor."

He crosses his arms, frowning gingerly. "This man you're betrothed to. He won't let you break the engagement?" She gives a gentle shake of her head. "What about your parents? They arranged it. Surely they'd…" he must see something in her face. "Then you're stuck, no matter your feelings?"

She bites her tongue. "I wish I could help."

"It's just how these things are. There's no sense in despairing about it." Why cause herself needless heartache. "But I have gone on long enough. It's late and I still have a great deal of work to do." He nods absently. They stand there waiting, seemingly for the other to say something before separating. Josephine goes up to her room, practically kicking her heels off. She needs a hot bath and a glass of wine and another life.

She goes to the vanity and studies her reflection. It is nearly perfect and yet something in the reflection is unrecognizable. Perhaps it is her vanity that leads her to studying it as long as she does. She finds nothing and takes out a fresh piece of paper, her fingers easing along the silken stationary before she writes.

_Inquisitor_ ,

_Matters in Kirkwall are taking longer than anticipated. I have the utmost faith that it will all be resolved in the upcoming negotiations. In the meantime, do not expect us to return as quickly as we initially planned. We will return victorious and with the goals you outlined accomplished. I hope you and Skyhold are well._

_With warm regards,_

_Josephine_

* * *

Leliana takes the steps up.

It's been hours since they left the cabin. The Inquisitor retreated almost immediately upon arriving at Skyhold. Leliana let her, retiring to the rookery, drinking honeyed wine, thinking until it hurt. She added Soldrian's name to her list. She considered another ledger: one where the stolen humanity goes. Her name might be at the top of the list. At this rate, perhaps Evelyn's will join it.

The Inquisitor's quarters are cold despite the fireplace. Flames reflect on the glass doors. Leliana sees the distant shine of the stars. Evelyn is on the bed, awake, as Leliana expected she would be despite the late hour. She reads her book of stories and Leliana is comforted. Perhaps the Inquisitor doesn't hate her after all.

She resists the temptation to jump onto the bed and give her a fright. A moment later the Inquisitor notices her. The startled expression on her face gives way quickly to a reserved contentment. She sits up on the bed and Leliana pushes the hood back from her head. "Perhaps I am clever enough to find you after all. Am I disturbing you?"

"I've never objected to a beautiful woman in my quarters."

"I hope you'll object to others that  _aren't_  me. You're reading my book of stories." She sits on the edge of the bed. "One day I'll take it back and see which ones you've taken a liking to."

"Should I pretend that they're like children and I love them all equally? Not that I have a grand family example to go by," she smiles grimly. She makes jokes but Leliana knows it hurts her. "Varric's friend—the pirate queen—wrote a story about us long ago. Did you know?"

"What? Let me see it." The Inquisitor shakes her head. "Don't be a prude."

"Why don't you write one? Leave Cullen out of it."

She smiles. "Is that how it was? Isabela has always loved her threesomes. And who can blame her? They can be enjoyable, yes?" The kisses, the contact, warm breath glancing along her skin. She settles into the stack of pillows. They feel like clouds, like a dream, like a life she lived long ago. She sighs longingly, happily. The Inquisitor turns on her side to look at her. "Have you been in any?"

"What?"

Her eyes twinkle. "I've embarrassed you."

"It's... Don't you know the answer?" The Inquisitor looks at her as if expecting her to look away. Leliana doesn't. "Have you?"

"Haven't I just said so?" She has, yes. A handful. Only one that mattered. Mostly it was work. Not all her partners walked away from those entanglements. The Inquisitor lays down on her side, arms folded as if to drift off to sleep.

"It's hard to imagine."

"Because I'm part of the Chantry?" There are those sweet and devout young things, yes. Beautiful and ripe, earnest and entrancing. But a great deal are like her. Beautiful on the outside, rot beneath. "Is it so hard to imagine that others would want me?" Sometimes she has a hard time imagining it herself.

"On the contrary. It's far too easy to imagine. You're beautiful."

It pleases her to hear it. She thought she'd moved past the time when such words could bring her happiness. Justinia called her arrogant, she said so tenderly but others were less so. "Perhaps I only wish to hear you say it."

"I'll tell you as often as you like. When I said it was hard to imagine…" She concentrates. Every now and then the Inquisitor appears forgetful, her sentences trailing off to nowhere, eyes foggy. "You're so… I can't think of the word."

"Without offending me, you mean?"

She smiles, embarrassed. "Aloof."

"I wasn't then. There were stories of how warm I could be. There was a girl you never knew. The one with the pretty dresses and the perfumes. The one with the sweet words. Is that the one you want?"

"I want the woman in front of me."

Her lips pull upward. "I'm glad. Because that girl is long gone. Everyone admired me. I had them where I wanted: eating out of the palm of my hand. When you play the Game, even sex is a weapon."

"Is that what it is with us?"

"You've used it that way as well, no?" The Inquisitor's silence is answer enough. "But to answer your question, no. I don't use it that way anymore. There's so little in this world that is true, that gives pleasure. What's between us is pure. I won't abuse it that way." The Inquisitor reaches out and takes her hand. Leliana resituates herself and looks at her. "I've given what happened earlier a great deal of thought. It must have been difficult for you." She looks closely at her but sees no tear stains. She must have bathed, removing all traces of her emotion. "Did you cry?"

"You saw me cry."

She did. What did the Inquisitor cry for? Soldrian, his apostate daughter, or that the foundation of all she believed being shattered? "More, I mean." She touches her fingers along her forehead. "We can talk about it. We probably should."

A smile tugs her lips, eyes flicking elsewhere. "Was it difficult for you?"

Perhaps she isn't ready to speak of it. "Not as hard as it should be. As it once was." A beat. "Mostly I was afraid of how you would see me." The Inquisitor's breath quickens and Leliana wonders if she's going to send her into a panic again. "Who is that woman in the cabin? The one I adopt when the task calls for it, or my true self? I don't know anymore and it doesn't frighten me as it should." The Inquisitor puzzles over what to say. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

She laughs softly. "We'll see about that. Several months ago, while you were away, I had a talk with Morrigan. We had a disagreement. That's all we ever seem to have. I thought that all these years later there would be no way she could get under my skin, and then, like the witch that she is, she got under my skin."

"Shall I have her executed?"

Leliana laughs, delighted. "I might prefer to do it myself."

Her smile falters. The matter has troubled her after all. "Do you mean to tell me what she said or do you plan on teasing me all night?"

"And now you pretend to be opposed to teasing?" she says, scooting closer. The Inquisitor watches her with baited breath. Leliana brushes her lips over her fingers. "She compared me to Corypheus." The anger in her voice surprises even her. "Can you believe it? I dismissed her and I was stupid enough to think that would be the end of that. But today, in that cabin…I saw something in your face… and since then, I've been wondering if she isn't right. If this work hasn't changed me into something…" she looks at her, desperate. She is unaccustomed to doubt. Good or bad, she knows where she stands. She thought she did. She's no longer sure. "Do you think that? That we're the same?"

"How does any answer but "no" not get me a knife in the ribs?" Leliana curls her fist, rubbing her knuckles along her sternum gingerly. "You wear similar colors. But he's got better shoes."

"You're awful. I'm baring myself to you."

She skims her fingers along the material of her robe. "You missed a few layers." Leliana laughs and The Inquisitor takes her hand. "You're mad if you could ever think you're like him. I was afraid today, yes. I'm still afraid. But not of you. Never you."

There's a moment of gratitude. She only recognizes it when the air fills her lungs. "What then?"

She looks away. "Spending the entire night talking about myself." She picks up the book of stories. "I'd rather talk about the good things." She lifts the book. "No one has ever given me something like this. Maybe it meant nothing to you—"

She touches her wrist. "It was not 'nothing'." It was only everything she had once loved.

"It's strange having you here. I spent so long battling this attraction—"

"You battled it, did you? Poorly. Do I make you nervous, Inquisitor?"

"Your very presence sets me afire."

Fire can be cleansing. Purifying. But that is not why people go to her. "You've had many lovers." The Inquisitor frowns. "You're thinking of her."

"Who?"

"You tell me."

"I'm thinking of you. And Brynn Cousland. Anna has sent another letter inquiring after her."

The Inquisitor continues to dwell on the woman. "Will you lay blame on your heartless spymaster?"

A grim smile. "I'll let Josephine craft a response."

"I'm not sure she knows what happened. I can tell her."

"I'll do it."

"She'll be angry."

"Yes," she says, resigned.

Leliana doesn't know if it's at the conversation or the thought of Josephine. She wonders at this bed that Josephine shared with the Inquisitor. She contemplates the women together and is rattled by the small stir of jealousy. Josephine is still able to present with kindness, beauty and grace. Perhaps it only troubles her because it's been long since she's had anyone or anything to call her own. Because duty allows and encourages Josephine to be everything she cannot.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," she decides. "I was worried what happened earlier might ruin things between us, but it appears you would keep me close for a time longer."

"For as long as I have."

Leliana frowns. So many that meant everything to her: gone. So many she could not keep safe. "Don't say that."

There's a puzzled smile. "I didn't mean anything by it." She touches her arm. The contact is enough to momentarily appease her. "Tell me what you'd have me say."

Leliana smiles. "Ah. I didn't know our Inquisitor could be so obedient." She shifts, settling a knee between the Inquisitor's, taking her face in her hands. "I would have you speak your mind. Whatever it may be. You should have no fear of being shy in my presence." Her face heats in her hands. How charming. "Shame does not exist between us."

"Really?"

"I played the game in Orlais. They're all beasts. There is precious little you can say that could scandalize me."

"That's a shame."

Another laugh. She's laughed more tonight than... she can't remember. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't try." She drapes her arms over her shoulders, twining her fingers.

"I'll think on it and see what I can do. I've been meaning to ask. That flower on the book you gave me. It's Andraste's Grace, isn't it? Do you like that flower?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I thought I could get you some. If you like it, that is."

The Warden collected it for her. The thought of another doing similarly wounds her. Leliana measures her response. "It's just a flower. Nothing special." Leliana kisses her as if to keep another lie stowed away. The Inquisitor brings her close. They kiss leisurely before separating. Leliana brings a hand to her chest.

"What is it?" Evelyn asks. Leliana doesn't know how to voice it. "Do you need to go?"

She shakes her head. "I told you that I have a hard time letting down my defenses. I catch myself hiding little things. For so long I've had to worry that any revelation could be used against me and those I care about. It's become second nature. And now I find myself lying about flowers. How silly." But how many were killed to retrieve a letter sent to an old friend? "It's only the two of us. I trust you, so I'll tell you. I do have a weakness for Andraste's Grace. I lost my mother when I was very young. Not so young as you, of course. I did have some time. Four years. When she died… it devastated me. I barely remember her. Like you, I was not raised by my father. I was raised by the noblewoman my mother worked for. Lady Cecilie. She was lovely and fostered my love of stories. They were my only comfort when my mother passed." The Inquisitor watches her intently.

How long since she's allowed herself to speak at length over personal things? "It was long ago. I'm no longer sure I can trust the few memories I have. I remember her standing in a garden. I believe we walked them together. She smelled of flowers. She loved Andraste's Grace, and so I loved them. Perhaps in her stead."

"I'm sorry you lost her. I never knew mine. I imagine the knowing must have made it all the more heartbreaking."

"That's sweet of you. I often wonder what my life would have been if she'd lived. You must wonder the same of yours." She nods. "Perhaps we never would have met. So in these things, we must look to our silver linings, despite the sadness." Another nod, another brief kiss.

"I'll find some for you." She winces. "But I suppose it won't be a surprise now."

She stares at her inquisitive face. "I would prefer to not get them. I'm sorry. When I look at them—they make me sad. The flowers. The stories."

"Why?"

Because they're reminders of those she's lost. She can't tell her about the Warden. She isn't sure she's physically capable of it. She shakes her head. "Maybe I'll tell you some other time. But not now." She brushes a kiss to her forehead, another to her lips. "I'd prefer to speak of happier things. I'd prefer to make love to my thoughtful Inquisitor. The world is a frightening and lonely place. The night particularly so and we have braved it on our own for long. Let us be grateful that we can face it together." She takes the Inquisitor's wrist and then the other, pressing her onto her back. "Now it's your turn to relax, my sweet. There's something I've been longing to give you."

* * *

The bath wasn't enough to rouse her but she rubs her eyes, as if that's what will do the trick. Hawke splashes cold water on her face, trying to remember what happened. Her wrists, face and body are patched black and blue. She doesn't understand her reflection in the gloomy bathroom mirror. There's a quiet knock on the door.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm nearly done." She sounds panicked but isn't sure why. What happened isn't surprising. This is Kirkwall. Some part of her still doesn't believe it. This is  _Kirkwall_. She's never taken a beating like that. Not ever. Not from Cullen. Not from Evelyn. Not from Corypheus. The Inquisition dragged her to Kirkwall. Cassandra dragged her to the Hanged Man. She swallowed potions… Maker, why doesn't she remember? Another splash of cold water and she exits the bathroom. Cassandra stands in the room with a worried expression. "I must look bad if you're making that face."

"You've barely spoken in days. You've been feverish." Hawke is taken aback by how soft she looks outside of her armor. Or maybe it's the concern she wears. She tries to ignore her throbbing skull. She doesn't remember any conversations. "And you've eaten almost nothing."

"Did Josephine meet with the Viscount?"

"Not yet. Nor do I wish to speak of Josephine now." Her sigh is like a hammer. Hawke sits on the small unmade bed and Cassandra sits on the wooden chair beside it. Hawke remembers her there in the shafts of sunlight and wonders if its only an invented memory. "How are you?"

"About as good as I look. I don't understand. Did we miss the meeting with Josephine or—"

"Yes. We were attacked. Don't you remember? The… the templars?" Templars…? "Not only that. The others were attacked as well. By Venatori and apostates camped out in the Gallows during their tour. They were nearly killed."

"I'll bet. Cullen doesn't strike me as a particularly charismatic tour guide." The usual look from Cassandra. "Are they all right?"

"Yes. You seem to have taken the worst of it."

"Of course I have."

"I sent a letter to Skyhold, informing the Inquisitor of what happened. I hope it arrives. I am worried. We've been here too long and this matter has not been resolved. Further, Kirkwall is… it is more than we were prepared for. I am not sure how to keep any of us safe." Hawke sees that her face has some bruising as well. "I am sorry I let this happen to you."

"All I remember is screaming…"

"Yes. My doing. It is one of my skills as a seeker. Setting lyrium ablaze is useful but it is not pretty." Is that what she did? How must it feel? She's an apostate and after all this time Hawke isn't convinced Cassandra fully trusts her. What would it be like if Cassandra used that particular skill against her? She hears Anders' voice, his disapproval and warning. "I keep replaying what happened over and over again."

"I barely remember any of it."

"Forgive me for saying so, but I am grateful. It was an awful thing."

Hawke smiles. "I've got more than enough awful memories to tide me over. Templars, was it?" she's glad she doesn't remember. "What's next?"

"Josephine intends to meet with the Viscount in the next few days. There is little you can do in the meantime, so I suggest spending the upcoming days resting. Perhaps seeing your old estate."

"Will you accompany me?"

"If that is your wish."

"It is." They spend the next hour eating a small breakfast in the downstairs tavern. Hawke recognizes many of the faces and tells Cassandra their stories, as surely as they gossip about her to one another. She's bringing a forkful of potato to her mouth when Cassandra reaches across the round table and touches her wrist, her thumb dwelling on the inside where her skin is a dark plum color. "We can go back upstairs," Hawke tells her.

"Don't you want to talk about what happened?"

"Isn't it enough to know it happened? To feel it happened? Templars hurt me. It wasn't the first. I wasn't the first. It won't be the last." She eats her potato angrily. "Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for you. Thank you. But if I think about it too long I'll get angry or afraid or both. And I'm tired of being either, Cassandra. It's exhausting."

"I understand."

"Kirkwall doesn't feel like home anymore." Nowhere does.

They finish their meal and walk through the city. It's battered. Blood accents every building. Soot covers everything like a stain. She's skittish and she's sure Cassandra sees it, despite not commenting.

When they arrive at the estate they stop. The home has been overrun with ivy. Hawke stands at the doorway, fingers brushing the leaves wreathed around the entrance. "What are the chances it's gone unnoticed?"

"Unlikely."

Hawke frowns at the home, no longer sure she wants to go in. She's certain it has been abused and the mere thought makes her sick. She collects herself and goes inside. The weight flies from her shoulders. She'd braced herself for disaster but it's been safeguarded. "Bodahn?" she calls out. "Sandal?" she ignores the table where the white lilies waited for her and rushes into the library.

The books are lined perfectly on the shelves. She trails a finger along the desk and only the thinnest layer of dust comes away. "Look at it!" she tells Cassandra.

Cassandra allows a careful smile. "I see it. Certainly this is peculiar."

"Is Orana still here?" She leaves the library and moves to the kitchen in search of her but the elven woman isn't there. "Orana, are you here? It's Marian." She calls but gets no answer. Undeterred she takes the steps up quickly before slowing. Her heart climbs with every step until she's arrived at the stop of the stairs. She forces herself to the left, opening the door to her mother's room. It's dark until she enters. The candles flare to life.

Her mother is dead but she sees her, distorted, pale and abused by that maniac. For an instant she hates Quentin, herself, everyone like her. What did her mother do to deserve it? The memory is so vivid she loses feeling in her legs and staggers. Her hands land on the bed, fingers burying in the soft worn material of the bedspread. She sinks to her knees before it, trying to draw in the scent of her. Maybe her perfume or… spices or… but it smells like mothballs and nothing more.

"Marian…"

"I'm all right." She's just tired. She just feels like she's having a breakdown. She kneels another few moments before pushing to her feet. The vanity homes small framed paintings. "I know you're afraid of me. Somewhere, deep down." She looks back to Cassandra whose only indication of having heard is a line cutting into her brow. " 'The Champion' people call me. It's absurd. I spent so much time being afraid. Of templars and what one bad day might do to me. Anders and I were alike that way. Of two minds. But I didn't have… some  _thing_  inside to make me that way." She picks up a painting, three inches tall and wide, a small landscape of Lothering. "The day I found my mother…" she can still see her twitching. What magic was that? How can something like that ever be good? "Anyway, I didn't want to see Anders for a long time. I didn't want to see Merrill. I hated them. I hated myself.

Mother wasn't perfect. She said hurtful things to me. Not on purpose. She was hurting too. But I've never forgotten them and I think some part of me never forgave her for them. But she was good and she did the best she could. She wasn't suited for hardship but because of me and Father and Bethany, that's what she got. I sometimes thought— what if I got pregnant with Anders? What if we had a child? Some little apostate thing." She smiles. "Maybe there'd be some piece of him left." Cassandra shifts. "But what kind of life would he or she live? Always on the run. And what's the alternative? The Circle?" She sets the painting down. "I go back and forth. Was Anders right? Was Meredith right? I don't know. Who's better? Everyone can be so cruel."

"Cruelty is a decision we make. We can choose to be better." A beat. "You're worrying about something."

"I thought I was the blood mage."

Her nose flares. "You say things to provoke me and I do not like it."

"You're a seeker. Stronger than a templar. And... Andrastian. The Chantry has its belief about mages. I'm powerless before you. What you did to those templars. You usually do that to mages, don't you?"

"Not usually. I told you, I do not like to use it. I haven't in quite some time."

"Then how do you fight them?"

"The same I fight anyone else. With my sword. The Seeker skill is effective in getting answers."

"How honest are your answers when you do something like that to a person? When they'll say anything to make it stop?" She thinks of Cullen's palm on the side of her face. She wonders if she'll ever leave this city. "I'm sorry. Being in here makes me feel…" she hears a noise. "Who's there?" she doesn't wait for an answer, rushing out of the room and coming to the top of the stairs. She stares down at the small figure with the water pail, not registering.

"Hawke?"

The voice is similar though Hawke can't reconcile it with the elven woman below her. Green eyes. Vallaslin. Shoulder length brown hair. "Merrill…?" She stands taller. Hawke runs down the stairs, nearly tripping. "Merrill!" She throws her arms around her, squeezing her tight. "Maker. I hardly recognized you."

"When did you get back?"

"Didn't Aveline tell you?"

"Aveline…? No, I haven't—"She looks up at her, features growing concerned. "Creators, what happened to you?" Cassandra steps beside her. Merrill looks at her apprehensively. "Hello. I'm Merrill. A friend of Hawke's."

"I gathered that." Cassandra narrows her eyes on her before turning to Hawke. "This is the bl—"

"This is my dear friend," Hawke says. Merrill brightens. "Have you been the one taking care of this place?"

"I thought it was the least I could do."

"The least you could do is nothing at all. It means a lot, Merrill." She reaches up, fingers grazing the tips of her ears. "Thank you."

"After everything you did for me—no thanks are necessary. Please." Color touches her cheeks. "Is Varric here?"

Hawke spends the next while telling her what happened. Merrill cries. Hawke nearly joins her. Cassandra looks uncomfortable but Hawke doesn't know whether it's the conversation or being next to a known blood mage. Merrill serves tea and they sit at the kitchen table. None of it feels real. "What happened here?" Hawke asks after they've mourned Varric. "Kirkwall looks… It's never looked this bad."

"Are you sure? You spent so much time in Hightown, I think by the time you left you forgot."

"I spent time in Darktown, too."

Merrill frowns. "Yes, Darktown." Her cheeks are still stained with tears and it makes her look young and vulnerable. She looks at Cassandra cautiously.

"You can talk freely, Merrill. Cassandra's a friend. She's here to help." She puts a hand on Cassandra's knee beneath the table, determined to keep her from saying whatever nonsense she's thinking.

"I am only interested in the truth," Cassandra says.

"Don't mind her," Hawke tells Merrill, "she always talks like this. Remind you of anyone you know?"

Merrill giggles before sobering. "Maybe a little. Hawke, you don't know. Things are bad," she says so quietly, as if someone may be lurking in the shadows and listening. "The templars are gone—mostly, anyway—but the ones that are here… they're… they're doing terrible things."

"They always have."

"No. Not like this. They kill suspected mages. They attack anyone who may be hiding them. Sometimes the people they butcher aren't even mages. It's like they've all gone crazy. The Gallows aren't safe anymore. I suppose they never were but without anywhere to take 'apostates'—… it's scary."

"They are not unlike the rebel templars, then," Cassandra says.

Merrill seems surprised to hear her speak, she's been so intently focused on Hawke. "I can't say. I haven't seen them. But the ones here are all a bit touched. They look… sick. They're wild…"

"Have they hurt you?" Hawke demands.

"Some. Not like they wanted. They've tried," she grimaces. "Mages are afraid. They're going into hiding."

"Why not just leave?" Hawke asks.

"Not everyone can. We've heard stories of what's happening outside Kirkwall. They don't think they can survive. Templars are one thing but demons and… everything else. I keep thinking of my people and how they never wanted more than two or three to a clan. I never understood that but now I do. And I worry it's dangerous. I try to help how I can—teaching and… I don't know, giving back in some way. It's hard without a Circle. I never thought it'd be like that but you and I, Hawke—we're the exception, not the rule."

"You just don't know enough people," Hawke mutters.

"But there are so many mages and I can't attend to them all. And bad ones get in. The City-Guard can't do anything. And so everyone is afraid all the time."

"Isn't the bloody Viscount doing anything?" Hawke asks. "I've seen that other guard walking about the city. The Viscount's? Their armor has flecks of gold in it."

Merrill squirms. "I've seen them… they don't do much of anything except follow him around."

"Then what are the mages left with?"

"When the templars left, the Circle mages tried to stay behind. Eventually the few templars left… made that difficult. Some of the surviving Circle mages work at the Blooming Rose. Or so I'm told. If you're there, you're left alone, for the most part. But I suppose you don't go there to be left alone. Not  _you_. Maybe you do. But you didn't before. Not always." She bites her lip, irritated.

"Merrill. One sentence at a time. Focus. "

She nods. "Oh. Right. All I meant, is that the ones who haven't allied with the mages at the Gallows are there. You know. Doing what they do there."

"And that's better?" Cassandra asks, horrified.

"Better one sword than the other," Hawke says. Cassandra looks at her, disgusted.

"Better than templars," Merrill twines her fingers anxiously, "yes."

"Maker preserve us. Who are these mages getting into the alienage?" Cassandra asks. "Since Hawke forgot to ask."

"Sure, let's talk about the mages and not the templars," Hawke snaps.

"I just wish you were here," Merrill says. "You made it better." Hawke curls her fingers on the table. "There are… there are certain forms of magic. I can feel them…"

"You mean blood magic," Cassandra leans forward.

"Yes. I don't know what's happening in the Gallows. I do know something  _is_  happening there. Tevinters or… other angrier mages. Either way… the City-Guard has its hands full with murders. Not the usual Lowtown and Darktown kind. Something darker." She looks at Hawke sympathetically. Hawke's stomach drops. "I don't know how to stop it. It's only me and Aveline. And even though the templars are… the way they are… they're disappearing, too. Being taken to the Gallows and… It's not good, Hawke. Everything is out of control. All the crazy things Meredith said—they've finally happened." She reaches out, takes her hand. "Have you come back to stay? Kirkwall needs you."

"The Viscount and Sebastian want my head."

Her eyes widen. "What?"

"That will be resolved," Cassandra says sharply.

"How?" Hawke asks.

"Are you safe?" Merrill looks to the two of them. "If the Viscount is after you…"

"She has returned on behalf of the Inquisition," Cassandra says. "We will protect her."

Merrill looks at Hawke's face, as if to fling Cassandra's words back at her. Hawke gathers her breath. She shouldn't have come back. She should have never left.

* * *

What if this is not the path the Maker has outlined for them?

Evelyn can't stop thinking about it. The thoughts circle like caged beasts gnashing at the bars. She's killed men and women before. It started at the Ostwick Circle. Death was meant to serve a Higher power, a greater purpose. It was the manifestation of an ideal. Throughout the Inquisition she has killed many. Many trying to kill her or her companions. It's easy to justify. She's the Inquisitor. The one with the Anchor on her hand, the only thing that's stopping this world from drowning in demons. To kill her is to doom the world. So she kills and others kill for her. They kill for the Maker. Anything for the Maker.

Yet, she cannot get that elf out of her head. Soldrian. Was it Inquisition men who violated his daughter? Or were they rebel templars, pretending? It could go either way. She thinks of the nails on the platter, bloody and with skin stuck to them, the face that almost wasn't a face and her knees weaken again.  _This is my duty, Inquisitor. It's ugly and I don't like it but let me do it._

Does she have to let Leliana do it? Is this what the Divine asked of her? Leliana didn't flinch at the gore. It was… normal. She felt no sympathy for the man. Was ending him the mercy she said it was? Or was it inevitable given how he was ranting about ousting the Inquisition?

Leliana has spoken of her work before. She keeps a list of the dead. She has apologized for being soft and withdrawing her agents before the attack on Haven. What if Haven could have been saved? She's no fool. It was Corypheus. It was always Corypheus. But who decides what the acceptable trades are? She? Leliana? Aren't those decisions best left to the Maker? But if he speaks through them…

Evelyn takes a shaky breath. She stands in one of their underground storage rooms. It's colder than the rest of Skyhold. The room pulses blue and it sings. Ser Barris wanted her to take a look at their inventory of lyrium, which makes her think it was only paranoia to suspect that he knew anything about her situation. There's a desk and a notebook. She pores over the consumption numbers, how much comes in, the costs. They don't have enough. Not to sustain the templars for the foreseeable future.

She picks up one of the bottles, exhaling with pleasure at the touch. She folds it in her hand, brings the vial close, shivering as the container touches her lips. She warms, aching for it. There's so much insecurity now. Not like before when she drank and it filled her. The world was cold and colors were dull and grey but everything was in sharp focus. The lyrium kept her safe in more ways than one. This reality is hazy and colorful and confusing. She's no longer sure.

She's taken walks with increasing frequency in the days that followed the excursion to the cabin, trying to settle herself and still her breath. Clear her head. She misses clarity. She hears a noise and panics, slipping the lyrium vial into her satchel. Her heart beats uncontrollably. She waits anxiously, as waves of ice and heat fall over her.

No one enters. She takes another vial for safe keeping.

She exits to the outside once the panic has subsided. She keeps her hand in her satchel, warm and nearly giddy now that it's close. Fire trails through her at the thought of taking lyrium, before it turns to ice, making her want to run to her room. She sees Dorian in the distance and avoids him. He might see something in her face. He might see  _her_. Not that she'll take it. She won't.

_So put it back._

There's no need to put it back. She won't take it. She's better. Isn't she better now? She has Leliana who accepts her, who makes her happy, who makes her body rejoice, her spirit soar. That will solve it. It will fix her. Shouldn't it? She wipes her face though there is no sweat, only the sensation of it. She heads towards the grand hall, taking the steps two at a time. She'll go to her room and put it away, though the thought of parting with it makes her desperate. She's nearly at the door when she spots Leliana, emerging from Josephine's study. A cold shiver runs down her back despite how she smiles.

"Inquisitor." Leliana studies her. Evelyn realizes her hand is still slipped inside the satchel. Should she try to remove it? Should she leave it in there? Leliana will notice. She'll notice no matter what she does and Evelyn resents her for it. "You're flushed."

"It's what you do to me. Did you need me for something?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you have a moment?"

Evelyn nods stiffly, pulling her hand from the satchel the moment Leliana opens the door. She follows her into Josephine's office, and tries to stop shivering. Why did she go down there? What was she thinking? That she could do it? That she was over it? That she was cured? Will the small vials clink? Would it be less obvious to keep her hand over the satchel? Perhaps she should be still. Very still.

She thinks about it as they walk to the war room, monitoring her steps, trying not to walk awkwardly and feeling as if Leliana knows everything she's trying to hide and thinks her a fool. Maybe she's laughing at her. Maybe she despises her. No. That isn't true. She doesn't know why she's having such thoughts. They're irrational. She swallows, forcing herself to take small shallow breaths. Leliana closes the door behind them. "Have I caught you at a bad time?" Leliana asks."You can say yes, you know."

"Have I ever said otherwise to you?"

Leliana's eyes soften and for the moment she nearly forgets the lyrium. She can stare into that face, sometimes so stoic and cold, other times heartbreakingly vulnerable, and think it is better than the armor the lyrium gives her. The cutting pain of reality is preferable to numbness. "Not enough for my liking," she says before lifting two pieces of paper. Evelyn stares at them, unsure of what she's meant to understand. "These arrived from Kirkwall. One is from Josephine, the other is from Cullen."

"Is it done?" She reaches for the paper but Leliana pulls them back. "Am I not allowed to see them?"

"You are." She considers. "It's just… well. I've known Josephine a long time. She has a way of…"

"You're tongue tied? How bad is it?" She plucks one of the papers from Leliana's grasp, unrolling it. It's from Josephine. Short and sweet. "What's the conflict? Why hasn't it been done?" she asks. "This report is rubbish. Do you know how hard of a time she used to give me about this sort of thing?" she waves the paper and extends her hand for the other report. Her hand trembles and maybe seeing it is what makes Leliana relent and give her the other rolled paper. Evelyn opens it.

_Inquisitor,_

_I'm afraid I'm not writing with good news. Kirkwall is far more dangerous than I've ever known. The Gallows have been overrun by Venatori and other apostates. I'm certain I saw some Circle mages from when I was Knight-Captain. Others are maleficarum. Most worrisome is that they all appear to be working together. One of them shouted praise to The Champion which is concerning for obvious reasons._

_The City-Guard doesn't see fit to step foot there. With no templars in the city, the situation is getting out of control. The Ambassador, Vivienne and I were attacked today. It's a miracle we escaped with our lives. Perhaps if I still drank lyrium it might have been different. Perhaps if they didn't have direct access to the old dwarven lyrium tunnels that run through the Gallows. The unfortunate truth is that they've got what they need to stay here for a very long time._

_I fear greatly for this city. We cannot allow Tevinter or Corypheus to establish a foothold here. I can't say that we'll be afforded the time to do what you asked, but we'll do our best._

_I am unsure of how long Kirkwall will survive on its own. We were both in the Order. We know the protection a templar can offer. I'll support any decision you make, even if it means doing nothing, but whatever your decision, I would advise that you make it soon._

-  _Cullen_

Evelyn reads the letter again and looks to Leliana. "I don't understand. These arrived today? Both of them?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible Josephine wrote her letter before this incident?"

"It's possible."

"But you don't think so." Her thoughts are disorganized. Kirkwall is overrun by maleficarum. The blasted city that started this mess they're in. She plants her palms on the war table and takes a long breath. "Why would she keep this from me?" she asks.

"We don't know that she has."

"She has. What's her game?" She works to unclench her jaw. "These maleficarum are in there like… vermin and she's trying to defend them. This is like that same nonsense you two spouted before. An alliance with the mages at Redcliffe, you said. The same mages who have been trying to kill us for over a year. I just don't understand how she could be so stupid!"

"Calm down. Don't shout."

"I'm not shouting." But she hears her voice, bouncing back to her in echoes. Her body is hot, uncomfortable emotion welling up inside of her. Try as she might she cannot bury it. Leliana is still. "Where's Cassandra's report?"

"There isn't one."

"Why isn't there? What the Void is she doing up there? Does she think I sent her up there to flirt with Hawke?"

"I'm sure she doesn't think that. Inquisitor. Calm yourself. Please."

"I sent them there, for  _Hawke—_  for  _politics_. They were nearly killed. And then what would have happened to the Inquisition?"

"They're fine. They're resilient. Even Josie. So get that look off your face. You're frightening this way."

Which way? She's motionless as Leliana touches her face, finger tracing along her quivering jaw. " _I'm_  frightening?"

"I know you value Cullen's opinion. More than Josie's. Perhaps more than Cassandra's. But he has seen and lived through terrible things and I fear they color his judgment. As they color yours."

Her words are clipped. "So we're the monsters? Templars? And the mages are the poor victims?"

Leliana drops her hand. "I wonder if this news pleases you."

"What are you on about?"

"You've hardly said a word over the matter with Soldrian but I know it has weighed on your thoughts. You don't want to question the Chantry and the templars or your beliefs. Cullen's news? It's a relief. It means you can return to believing everything you've always believed. That the templars are innocent and the mages guilty. You don't want to challenge yourself. You want to continue to think of them as monsters, less than human like the Chantry teaches, but they're not." Evelyn steps back from her. "You should wait for Cassandra before you make any decision. You mustn't be hasty."

"Are you afraid I'll send a squad to have the whole city executed? I can't imagine why that'd frighten you." Leliana crosses her arms but says nothing. Evelyn dips her head. "I'm sorry." She rubs her forehead. "You're right. I haven't known what to think. I've tried not to dwell but I can't help it."

"Is it only the templars you're questioning?"

"I don't know how you live with so much doubt. I don't think I'm suited for your brand of courage." She can't look at her. "I've always felt… steady with lyrium. I'm afraid that if I'm not sure… I'll return to that cowardly person I was at the start of all this. You hated her. I hated her. Everyone did. I need to be right, Leliana. Everything I say and do needs to be right."

"We can make it be right. We can make whatever we want."

The thought excites and frightens her. "Everything we do must be done for the Maker. Otherwise the deaths we've brought on… We can't be on the wrong side of all of this."

"We're not. I promise you. Inquisitor. Our faith makes us strong but it can also blind us." Once again she brings a feather light touch to her face. "Be careful that you do not let it consume you."

"I'm the Inquisitor of the faith. I am finally what a Trevelyan is meant to be." Leliana flicks her eyes away. What is she thinking? "Or do you think me a zealot?"

"Perhaps you're a zealot and I a heretic." She smiles. "We'll balance each other out, yes?"

"I don't want you to be a heretic."

"I don't want you to be a zealot. And here we are. Should that be your new nickname? I still like Night Wraith, myself."

"I don't like either of those."

"Too bad." She considers. "But this talk has been difficult. Perhaps we should sit and consider our strategy for Kirkwall. We have our soldiers outside the walls. Cullen is Commander. I know he'll bring them in if he feels it's necessary."

"They won't be enough in a city overrun with maleficar," she growls. "I'm tired." Her fingers twitch along the satchel. "I want to be alone. I need to think. I'll see you later." She brushes a kiss to her cheek, nearly flinching when Leliana's eyes meet hers. She walks out the door and into the hall. Her body hurts. She reaches into the bag, fingers curling around the lyrium vial. Time moves in slow motion, the hall stretching out into forever. She needs to calm herself.

The war room opens behind her. "Evelyn." She stops and looks back at her. "What we do isn't easy and it's harder on our own. What you're going through… whatever it is… you don't have to face it alone." Her mouth is dry. "I hope it doesn't sound as if I'm trying to mother you. But I don't want you to do something you'll regret. You torment yourself enough. If you need an escape let us find other ways. I'll help you." She comes closer and takes her hand. "I'll join you."

Evelyn looks at their hands. A happy flutter moves over her. She has this, somehow. Gained undeservedly perhaps. The attention and affection of the spymaster. What is it that Leliana offers? Her company and conversation? The spell her mouth and fingers can weave? Her kindness and understanding. It isn't enough. Not compared to the lyrium. Evelyn untangles their hands. Leliana gives a small frown. "My hand hurts." Her hand always hurts.

"Inquisitor."

"Leave me be." She walks away from her. She needs to be alone. She can't have her near. The guilt is already crushing her.

"Evelyn." Evelyn keeps walking. She hears her footsteps behind her. "It is how the Chantry keeps you leashed. Don't you understand that? Fear can't dictate policy. You're doing exactly what the Chantry wants. It's making you into a fanatic."

Evelyn whirls on her. "Don't you speak to me about fanaticism." She yanks at the belts at her side, desperate, furious and frightened, so many things all felt in one. She is drowning in emotion. She flings the satchel at her. Leliana catches it. "There. Are you bloody happy now?" She leaves her, moving directionless into the overbearing world, trying to will her hunger away but feeling it dig its hooks into her. The more she tries to break free the deeper it buries. Will she lose her friendships, Leliana, the Inquisition to keep it close? Will she ever be free of it? And if she has it, will she care what falls away?

She hurries to the chantry and drops to her knees in front of the statue of Andraste. "I have done everything for you. I have followed your word. I have sung praise to your name. Help me be free of this. Please. Bless me. Make me strong. Give me a sign. Anything, letting me know I still have your favor."

Andraste stares back at her with empty eyes. Nothing happens and then the pain in her arm comes alive, more excruciating than before. She grips it, huddling over, waiting for the waves of agony to wash away. Is this what she gets for lying to Leliana? For making demands of the Maker and Andraste? Is this what she must suffer in their name? Is this their way of telling her she hasn't done enough?

She glares at the statue, hating it, seeking the comfort she's received in the past. Her head is pounding, the pain in her arm radiating to other parts of her. She begs for forgiveness. She begs for the suffering to stop. She is met not with song or warmth, but with an escalation of pain, with the cold of silence.


	30. Judgment

Several reports are long overdue and Leliana resigns herself to the likelihood that her agents are dead.

The chill of the rookery blanketed her long ago. Nothing numbs her anymore, not even death. She adds their names to the list, twining her hands in prayer. A reflex from many years ago that she has not yet let go of. She cannot pray. Prayer absolves her of responsibility. How much longer will this Inquisition go? Her agents are thinning. Should she have called them back sooner? Has her inaction caused their deaths? She keeps her sigh. It helps no one and gives her a kernel of undeserved relief.

Their members remain in Kirkwall. Subsequent letters from Athenril have informed her of the heated situation there. Kirkwall is the manifestation of everything that is wrong with the Chantry's teachings and how mages are treated. They back them into a corner and are stunned and delighted when they act as they feared. Cullen's letter fired the Inquisitor up. He must have known what he was doing. Despite his brawn, he is an intelligent man; no matter how he allows fear to rule him. Yes. He and the Inquisitor can be too alike.

Leliana hears footsteps and soon she sees the Inquisitor. She lingers uncertainly near the head of the stairs. Leliana takes a small breath and Evelyn pulls closer as if drawn by it. Her Night Wraith looks so insecure. "May I approach?" she asks.

How formal. And awkward. Yes. She'd forgotten that about her. "You're Inquisitor. You can do whatever you like." The words sting and Leliana feels sorry for her. The day they argued Evelyn stormed off. Leliana was left with her satchel. Two bottles of lyrium. She wonders what prompted the cravings. How long will she hunger for the substance? Perhaps for the rest of her life. "Come. Sit."

She sits across from her. She's wearing those dark leathers. Leliana saw her run the grounds earlier; it appeared an act of desperation. It was not dissimilar from how she threw herself into physical activity after having succumbed to the lyrium previously. "What are you doing?" Evelyn asks. The words sound rehearsed and stilted. Leliana doesn't know if she's nervous or if it's the withdrawal.

"There are agents I've been awaiting word on. It's been too long and I think it's fair to assume they're dead."

She grimaces. "Did I know them?"

Leliana allows a tired smile. "No. But they were good agents. They're all good. They're all very devoted. It's…" she searches for the word. "A shame."

"This must be difficult for you. Are you all right?"

The conversation takes some of the self-consciousness from her and Leliana sees the familiar Inquisitor bubbling to the surface. Still, she does not wish to get into it. What can she say? She's afraid she can say nothing and the Inquisitor will stare into that nothingness and want no part of it. "I need to seek new agents. There are a few in the Chantry I can call on. Old associates. But they must be vetted. Their loyalties tested. Not everyone believes you're the Herald of Andraste."

"I'm  _not_  the Herald of Andraste. This was Corypheus' work, remember?"

"Working, unwittingly, through the will of the Maker."

It makes her look tired. The burden must be crushing. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yes."

"I can't ever make sense of what you do and don't believe." She rests her elbows on the table and scoots forward. "I'm sorry we've lost our agents."

"Not all."

"I'd like to meet the new ones. The recruits."

"Why?"

"Without them there wouldn't be an Inquisition. The least I can do is know their names. Their faces."

"Fine. But only if you promise not to take it to heart when they don't return."

"I should take it to heart." Leliana wonders why she's so difficult. Would she be better at her job if she could take it to heart? No. That's exactly why her talents are regaled. "Have we received a report from Cassandra?"

"I'm afraid we haven't." It's possible Cassandra didn't write one, though that would be unlike her. Leliana enjoys her reports. Cassandra employs a great number of details. Her handwriting is meticulous, each word carefully selected and yet the reports are stilted and straightforward. Perhaps in another life she'll be a poet but not in this one. "Is that the reason you've visited?"

"Only in part. I wanted to see you. I know I've been unavailable." She laces her fingers. "I've been embarrassed and…"

"And?"

"And… I wanted to say 'not myself'. But it's been months and I'm afraid this is who I am now. I don't like that person and I wish you hadn't seen me that way. I know you were trying to help." She looks away from telling the table intently to glance at her. "I have better days. I was beginning to feel… I don't know. Not quite like before. It's different with you. I feel…" she stammers. "That is… you make me happy. And I thought I'd known that feeling before. And maybe I did but this is new. Bright and… energizing and…exciting… I thought that would be enough to save me from…" she blinks, as if waking from a haze. "All I meant to say is that I'm sorry. I should have come sooner but I was afraid you wouldn't see me or… would make fun of me… or…"

"Why would I make fun of you?"

"How many times have I thought I had this under control? After a while it's pathetic."

"Evelyn."

"I shouldn't have looked at those stocks but Barris asked and I didn't know how to tell him. I didn't want him to think less of me. I should know better," she mutters. "I thought I was past this. Or close to past this. But some days it feels like the first day I'm weaning off. Those days it's all I can think about and I worry that I'll give in and risk it all for… this _thing_. I don't want to throw away all the good things. Because you're a good thing, Leliana. The best I've got. I hope that's not weird—" Leliana moves around the table to sit next to her. "I just don't want to lose you—and everything that I've got in a moment of weakness. You offered your company but all I could think was…" she sighs. "I'm so stupid."

"Don't say that."

She faces her uncertainly. "I understand if you don't want to be involved with someone like me."

" 'Someone' like you?" If only she knew the previous 'someone's she'd been involved with. She thinks of Marjolaine and imagines the contempt she'd feel for this woman baring her soul to her.  _So pathetic. Is this what you have stooped to, Leliana?_  She would chew her up and spit her out. A flush comes to Leliana's cheeks though whether it's anger or indignation at Marjolaine's response, she isn't sure. Perhaps she's embarrassed. Perhaps Marjolaine still has some hold over her.

"I don't want you to think you'll always come second to this. You don't. But there's something about it that… twists my head up and turns everything upside down so that I think it's normal and…" Leliana pulls her close and Evelyn rests her forehead on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Leliana threads her fingers through her hair. She's trembling. Whether it's from emotion or the hunger pangs she doesn't know. "I'm not going to pretend I like that side of you. But you've worried too much." She pulls back to look at her. "I forgive you. But if this is going to work—you have to let me in." She smiles ruefully. "I know I can't make this go away but I want to help you." The Warden was that way too, wasn't she? If only she'd told her what would happen when she fought the Archdemon. "Even if all that means is being a distraction until the darkness goes away."

"It comes back."

"Yes. I know."

Evelyn nods stiffly. "I'm not used to this. Outside of the women I'm bedding, I've always been thought of as a nuisance."

"I never said you aren't." She catches her eyes and smiles as she says the words. Leliana's relieved when she smiles, flexes her fingers. "While we're being honest—did your hand hurt like you said or was that all nonsense to get me to leave you alone?"

Evelyn grimaces. "A little of both. After our argument I went to the chantry and something came over me. I made it back to my room but honestly, I don't know how. I don't remember any of it. The Anchor was... Maybe there's something wrong with it." There it is. A cold she hasn't felt in so long. She ignores it. "It felt like a tickle before, barely more than a spasm. This was more like lightning striking my arm for hours."

Leliana takes her hand. It looks the same. It feels the same. Often times, death stares you in the face and it isn't until later that you realize it was there all along. She tells herself not to be afraid. "Are you all right?"

"It's better today. It has ached more recently. I'll get used to it. I did before." She smiles but Leliana sees no reason to. "Maybe it's a fluke. Stress or…" she gives a helpless shake of her head and turns Leliana's hand, fingers grazing along her palm. Leliana thinks of the Rivaini diviners the Chantry often condemns, and wonders if they more than the Maker can provide answers. "It'll be fine."

"Have you talked to Solas?" Evelyn frowns. Leliana thinks about their confrontation. She remembers Solas walking around Skyhold with the bruise as if it were a trophy from a victory battle. "Maybe you should. I know you've had your disagreements but he kept you alive. It's worth a discussion." Even if the elf is unknowable. She has searched out details on his past and has come away empty. Is it a failure of their agents or is Solas even craftier than she gives him credit for?

"It's nothing. We sealed the Breach. Once we've rid ourselves of Corypheus it'll disappear and neither one of us will have to worry about it anymore." She laughs but it sounds forced. "Unless you want to hack my hand off and seal the rifts yourself."

"I'm quite attached to your hand. I say we keep it."

"If you insist."

"I do." She lowers their hands, inclined to release it entirely but not able to. The Inquisitor is a puzzle of a woman. How much of her behaviors are her personality and how much are the lyrium withdrawal? They became close at the height of her addiction. What will she uncover as they get to know one another? It doesn't matter, because at her core, she is a good woman. Maybe that's what she's attracted to. That and her perseverance. She could take lyrium and be done with it. She could have drank it and come with the same apologies. Or would her demeanor have been something else? Composed and concise in a way that's scripted and dull? "Have you given any more thought to the Kirkwall situation? We must decide soon."

"I've done nothing but think of it. I've prayed and asked for guidance. I know what we must do."

"Are you going to tell me what it is?" Ice flickers in her eyes. Leliana recognizes that look. She's seen it many times, usually with those playing the Game, fighting to bury their humanity. Is this what faith and duty will do to a person? Who might this woman have been without the demands of the Inquisition? Who might  _she_  have been? "Shouldn't we talk about it?"

"Yes. We'll talk about it but the decision's been made."

"I know what you're thinking." She clasps her face in her hands, locks their eyes, willing her to understand. "You should reconsider."

"Nothing's final yet. I'm readying our forces so we can use them if need be. But I wonder if you'd be as worried if it was rebel templars we were putting down." Leliana can't say she would. Not with certainty. "You're compassionate, Leliana, no matter what you say. Perhaps to a fault. Maybe that's why you see something worthy in me that no one else has. I worried about telling you. But you said so yourself—we can make everything right. Whatever we want, we can have it.

Sometimes I worry about everything that's happened—everything that's scared us or seemed unfair. Sometimes it keeps me up at night because I doubt that someone like me could be placed in charge of all of this. But then I tell myself it's the will of the Maker. Our actions are guided by His hand. In time we will learn what He wanted us to. You and Cassandra have said that. Over and over again. We've gotten this far. It must be right." Leliana tries to swallow but her throat is dry. Yes. She said those things. Yes, sometimes she believes them. But. "No matter the strain this puts on us, I must remind myself of that. Through my actions is His will executed. This is what He wants. For us to safeguard the innocents of Kirkwall. If you were not so full of doubt, you would understand. But we'll show you. You'll believe again. I promise you." Leliana's eyes burn. Evelyn squeezes her fingers, presses a kiss to her forehead. "I leave at dawn."

* * *

 

Hightown is all but deserted. This isn't how Cassandra remembers this part of the city. Then again, she came soon after the rebellions. It's been over a year. It's night. Cassandra remembers Varric's stories. There was always trouble at night. Gangs, even in Hightown. Hawke and her associates put a stop to them or the city-guard did. Whether they still roam the city is unknown. Hawke walks beside her. She has been troubled since their talk with Merrill days ago.

"You seem sad." Cassandra tells her.

She smiles tiredly. "I am." Her face has healed further, though the bruises remain and her spirit suffers. She licks her lips as if to say something more but only shakes her head.

They walk further. "This isn't your fault."

"This is the very thing I wanted to prevent. I didn't want an Exalted March on Kirkwall's doorstep. Instead, the Inquisition I intended to avoid has returned me here. Everything I have ever done has meant nothing."

"That isn't true."

"Just because you say it doesn't make it so. Kirkwall is overburdened. This is my responsibility."

"But why is it? This is the city that has unjustly turned against you."

"They're afraid. They don't know any better."

It shouldn't surprise her. This is the woman she came to admire through Varric's tales. She does not quite live up to his legend. She is annoying and often times as painfully close-minded as she accuses others of being. And yet… Cassandra takes her hand. Hawke looks at her expectantly. Cassandra had no words planned. It only seemed important then to reassure her. "I want to help you."

"You have. You've saved my life."

"As you saved mine."

Hawke laughs. "But I did it the bad way." She walks, Cassandra's hand still in her own.

She cannot believe they are holding hands in public. Even if it is night and there is no other soul around. "You think my way was 'good'?"

"Others would think so. I have magic in my veins. You don't. If I were the Seeker and you the mage and we did the exact same thing, people would think the opposite. That likely seems an exaggeration to you but it's true as much as I've wished it weren't. Anders opened my eyes to how things really were. Mage freedom was of great importance to him. I'd never met anyone like that. I grew up having to hide my very nature. And when you have to hide a piece of you are, you can't help but think there's something wrong with you. That's why we mages all have a bit of a complex. It's like we're compensating for something, right?"

Cassandra doesn't know what that's like. "So that's your excuse for being smug."

She smiles wryly. "I don't need an excuse. Anders lost someone. Karl. He'd been made Tranquil. I thought he saw darkness where there wasn't any because of that. Templars were to be avoided but they weren't evil. Maybe Kirkwall was different. As time went on, I began to feel the same way he did. It always hurt when friends said things. You know, Fenris or Aveline. Some offhand remark. It hurt because I knew them. They weren't nameless. They're good people but deep down they thought I was a weapon or dangerous in some way. Meredith was insane. Later we learned it was the red lyrium that pushed her over the edge but look at this place. The Viscount doesn't rule here. It's on its way back to what it was when Tevinter controlled the city. Mages are powerful. They're taking their spaces back. Grand. I always thought that's what I wanted but I don't. I don't want to be seen like _them_. They're undoing any good will I bought mages. If Anders were still here—I wonder if we'd fight about it. I wonder if he'd join them. Maker. I should probably just shut up about him, shouldn't I? Does it bother you?"

The mention has recently begun to create a hurt within though she can't say why. Isn't Hawke grieving in the only way she can? It's selfish to deny her that. "I prefer that you tell me your feelings. Your thoughts. You do not always have to be a jester."

" _Me_? A  _jester_?" Cassandra rolls her eyes. Why does she encourage her? "Cassandra."

"Yes? What?" she's short.

"You're a grouch."

She scowls. So much for thinking Hawke would tell her something of importance. "Thank you for telling me. I was unaware."

"I love you." Cassandra stops. Hawke stops too. "It scares me. It probably scares you. Just the way we scare one another. But I want you to know that whenever you are near… there's this light that I feel inside of me. A light I thought was gone and buried with everyone else that I love." She laughs but her eyes glisten. Cassandra wants to ask if she's going to cry, to ask what's wrong. She has no words. "This city scares me. And everything is confusing. Except for this. Maybe the reason I keep talking about Anders is to… set me right or maybe I'm guilty… I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen. But if I know anything, it's that goodbyes come too quickly, if we're lucky enough to get them at all. I don't want to regret not telling you when there's a dragon breathing down my neck or when some templar…" she shakes her head. "I just wanted you to know. You're a grouch. But you're my favorite grouch."

They walk again, Cassandra lightheaded and Hawke brandishing her sad smile again. Cassandra looks down at their hands. She holds on tighter.

Hawke draws breath. "I was thinking…"

She doesn't say and Cassandra looks at her. "Are you intending on asking me to bed again?"

"Should I? I did say 'I love you' and all. Didn't even net me a kiss." Cassandra considers kissing her. "I was thinking if I shouldn't stay." Cassandra doesn't move. How strange how quickly the heat evaporates from her face, her body, a happy flush turned to ice. "Isn't the title of 'Champion' empty if I abandon my city? Not that it matters. The Viscount will likely take me into custody, won't he? If negotiations fail."

"That will not happen," she sounds aggressive, perhaps desperate. "Did you not say Kirkwall no longer felt like home? I do not think you should stay."

"Because you love me and can't bear to live without me? Wait. Don't answer. Let me have my fantasy."

"The Inquisition needs you."

"The Inquisition and the Inquisitor will do just fine without me. Varric brought me on to help but I've told you everything I know. And this was his city. I should honor him. I can do more good here."

"What if I need you?"

"Do you need me?"

Cassandra looks away. She takes a long breath. "Does it make a difference if your intention is to remain?"

"It might. It's just a thought. What if staying here only causes more problems for the Inquisition?" Cassandra knows her fears. Cullen informed them how the apostates at the Gallows shouted her name. Hawke hasn't been the same since. "But maybe that question is unfair. Especially given how things tend to go for me. I don't want whatever happens to weigh on you. Whatever you feel, I'm just happy to be here with you, walking beneath the stars." They slow at the Hawke estate. "It's odd seeing it again. I've had the best and the worst moments of my life here."

"Should we go in?"

"Fancy sharing a bottle of wine? Or should I walk you to your inn?"

"I am perfectly capable of walking to the inn myself." She is grateful there is no carriage near to repeat their night in Halamshiral.

"But it'd be romantic. You like that sort of thing, don't you? I could make some excuse. I've read Swords & Shields. Should I pretend to be the Captain of the Guard?" She stands straighter, puffing her chest out. " 'Injustice! I see you and you shall be vanquished!' Is that what she sounds like? Maybe it's just Aveline. I could pretend, if that's what does it for you."

"That does not interest me." She waits.

"Oh. Then… fancy coming in. For tea?" She puts 'tea' in quotation marks before grimacing. "Or wine. Or tea. The kind without quotation marks."

"Just open the door."

Hawke does, fidgeting with the key and stepping inside. Cassandra follows her. "It's dark. Sorry." It's some magic trick of hers, the way all the candles spring to life. The effect is enchanting and Hawke leads her to the kitchen, searching the cupboards for wine glasses. She withdraws two, blowing out the dust in them. "Why don't we find a bottle and we can drink straight from there?"

"If you'd like."

She perks and opens a side door in the kitchen, taking the steps down to the cellar. There's a loud stomp and what sounds like a crash. "I'm okay!" she calls out. A few minutes later she's returned with a bottle. She sets it down on the kitchen island, struggling with removing the cork before Cassandra takes it from her and pulls it free. "I'm impressed."

"I'm surprised you did not take credit for loosening it for me. If you did anything other than read books you might do the same."

"I might." She has a drink and offers the bottle to Cassandra who has a taste. It's bittersweet. She's surprised that Hawke didn't comment. Perhaps she's accustomed to it. "But without my bad girl reputation, would you be interested?"

"You are not a girl. You are a woman. As loath as you are to act your age at times."

"Bad woman doesn't have the same ring."

"No." She sets the wine bottle down. Hawke follows her movement of her hand, from the wine, to her face. "What are you thinking?"

"Don't say anything stupid."

"What?"

"That's what I'm thinking. What I'm saying to myself. 'Don't say anything stupid'." She takes her wrist carefully. "I'm not so bad with words, you know. I just get tongue tied around you."

"I would never know with how much you chatter."

"You did ask what I was thinking. But I don't know why because I always tell you. Too often I tell you. But you're a mystery."

She scoffs. "I do not have the refinement necessary for mystery. I am blunt. And without my charms. Vivienne has said so."

"Vivienne's a bitch."

"So has Leliana."

"Mh." The smile tells she feels similarly about Leliana. "So are you going to kiss me or shall we pretend that we came here for tea? You didn't come for the tea, did you? I'm not sure if I have any left. I didn't come for tea. If you did—"

"Hawke." She sounds sharp. It's a bad habit of hers, when she gets impatient or frightened or frustrated. "I do have feelings for you." She expects a smirk but it doesn't come. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been involved with anyone? You are only the second person I've ever kissed." Hawke's eyes widen, lips pursing in surprise. "Please do not stand there like some fish out of water. It is embarrassing enough. At least with Regalyan I could say I was young. I am no longer young. And you are a woman."

"A bad woman."

"I'm nervous," she growls. "And I am worried about everything here."

"You've said everything would work out."

"I want everything to work out." Her eyes burn.

Hawke blinks. "Hey. It's all right." She steps close and wraps her arms around her. "Maker. Your heart is pounding." It is and she can't make it stop. Cassandra tries to blink the tears from her eyes. How is this happening? Why is she the one on the verge of tears? It is not her life on the line. She wonders if she can commit to a woman who might not return to Skyhold. To a woman that has death hanging over her like a specter. To a woman who has blood mages as associates. "I was teasing, Cassandra. I'm not expecting you to sleep with me. That's not why I confessed my very obvious feelings." She pulls back. "I'm nervous too. There's a lot going on. There's no rush. We have time." Do they? Hawke takes her hands. "Come on. I'll walk you back to your inn."

"No, it's all right."

"I want to."

"I would prefer to stay."

"You would?"

"Yes." She tugs Hawke out of the kitchen and to the stairs. Her heart slams into her chest, harder with each step. Hawke gave her a tour of the home, except for one room.  _There's only one left and I doubt you want to go in there._  It'd been her attempt at a joke; the conversation with Merrill had left her disquieted. If only Leliana could be here, telling her what to do. She would probably be awful.  _I'll put my hands over yours and we can do it together._  Then they would fight. She hopes that letter reached her. She worries about leaving Hawke here. What methods will she turn to if she's outnumbered by maniacs?

They reach the top of the stairs, move through the door to the bedroom. Cassandra pushes the door closed and Hawke smiles. It is unlikely they will have visitors but she wants to be cautious, or perhaps she doesn't want to be able to make some excuse to escape. The fireplace comes alive, lighting the room. There are several heavy bookshelves stuffed with books and mementos. A diary sits atop of the desk. "You didn't take it?" Cassandra asks, touching the leather bound cover.

"I wasn't expecting to leave. I made a decision and I had to follow through before I changed my mind. Coming back for my diary didn't enter my head."

"Try not to forget it next time."

Hawke smiles guardedly and they move towards each other. They fumble, reaching out for hands, waists. Hawke laughs. If Regalyan had done it she would have been mortified. Instead, it sets her at ease. Their lips come together after what seems like too long. A shot of heat courses through her. Hawke has always been presumptuous. She confounded her in Crestwood when she kissed her as if she had any right. Cassandra mostly forgot about the incident, despite how inclined the apostate was to bring it up.

Yet, for whatever reason, perhaps with the same magic that Varric worked on her, she has come to find Hawke endearing and not the calculated figure she suspected at the beginning of this. She is as conflicted as she is with the politics of Thedas. She is no radical. She is a person, struggling to find meaning and purpose in a world that can be little and cruel. She was similarly lost long ago. Hawke's lips are warm and soft. Her hands glide over her.

Cassandra pulls her close as their kisses become heated. Her nerves are stripped away with each piece of clothing they pull away from one another. Perhaps some things are impossible to forget. They get to the bed, Hawke's mouth on her own, her skin hot, the very room bristling with heat. "That book with the diagrams," Hawke asks. "Have anything in mind?"

So she brings that up now. That was ages ago after returning from Halamshiral. "Say another word and I walk out of here." Hawke kisses her. She does not wish to leave but she is compelled to argue. "Is nothing sacred to you?"

"You are." She palms her face, hand sliding lower. All that remains are their underclothes and Cassandra is stupidly astonished at how different their bodies are. Hawke is willowy and pale with surprisingly full breasts. Scars line her like map markers. Her eyes are the bluest she's ever seen. She keeps her eyes on Hawke's, despite how she trembles to touch her. "Have you imagined this before? Have you imagined us?"

Cassandra nods, a current of pleasure shaking her as Hawke's fingers find purchase. "This isn't Skyhold." It is difficult to speak. "The concerns you had in Halamshiral. Aren't you worried I won't feel the same in Skyhold?" Does she mean to stay? Is this why they're allowing this?

"Our feelings and experiences are etched into the very fabrics of our being. That's why we can't escape those things that happen to us. But we can keep what's good and it can help us to get through the bad things." She stares down at her, cheeks flushed.

"Now is not the time to speak in riddles."

"I only mean that I can't see you doing anything half-heartedly. If you love me, you love me. It won't matter where we are."

She's afraid to answer yes, but she answers yes, frightened that she's doomed them in some way. The fear recedes somewhat at the brightness of Hawke's smile.

They remove what remains. Cassandra settles beside her, legs tangled together, hands and mouths drawing a diagram as they go along. Why had this daunted her so? So much of it seems self-explanatory. It is not altogether different. But it is. Hawke looks at her with the same devotion Regalyan once did. Cassandra wishes to give all of herself to her. She tries.

How much time do they have? The question haunts her.

* * *

Evelyn and Solas ride ahead of the squadron of templars.

Evelyn has listened to them, and the rustling of trees, to the clink of armor and horses hooves, laughter and whistles, talk. They are her templars. They follow her lead. They are the same and not the same. The reflection of the sun in their armor is like fire on her back.

Solas' brow is burrowed, a tight smile on his lips. They have spent the majority of the journey in silence. He does not wish to be there and yet they are all but forced to travel together. "The templar Inquisitor leads an army of templars to Kirkwall. Seems fitting."

There's something superior about him. It's more than words. It's a kind of pride, something his humble clothing cannot conceal. "You're warming up to another lecture." What about this time? How she perceives elves? How she is abusing the power of the Inquisition? He's accused her of that and worse before. "Get on with it."

That irritates him. " I wonder. Where is your armor? Or have you the sense to be ashamed to wear it?"

While she has regained some strength, she remains fatigued and more so lately. Donning the templar armor would slow her down. And some part of her would feel an imposter in it. As she struggles with feeling a fraud as the Inquisitor. Will she ever feel worthy? "You're looking to fight but I'm not interested."

"You're right. We stand on something resembling even ground and you're a templar. Templars only engage in battle when the odds are stacked in their favor."

Her hand twitches painfully, spasming and clenching around the reins of the horse. She decked him long ago. They've barely spoken since then. She'd begun regretting the violent action but now finds herself wishing she could do it again. "You were under no obligation to join me."

"On the contrary. The Spymaster's proposition appealed to me."

"And what proposition was that?"

"To monitor you. Assist, if necessary. She is an interesting woman with strong convictions. Worthy ones. A pity that her struggle with faith has allowed her sights to fall so sharply." What does that mean? She knows what it means and her cheeks heat. "She mentioned that the Anchor is troubling you."

Evelyn scowls. Solas was her caretaker after the Conclave. He saw to it that it did not spread and kill her. How? Is it some kind of elven magic? How was he capable of managing something new and unusual? "Whatever she said, it's exaggerated."

"I remember sounding similarly certain, long ago," he smiles. "Whatever you wish, the Anchor is magic. It is not physical or physiological. It has the power to kill you. It will kill you if you don't put a swift end to Corypheus. If this war rages on for long."

"We're nearly done."

"I hadn't noticed. It does not seem to me that you are in any hurry to stop Corypheus. Instead you involve yourself in these pointless political affairs, in concentrated efforts to consolidate more power. How Andrastian of you. I wonder if your lust for power can ever be satisfied."

Evelyn can think of nothing smart or clever and keeps her mouth shut. The brand aches more than ever and she has difficulty concentrating on anger.

He stares at her. "You're in pain. I see it now. Such pain can drive a person to madness. I've seen it happen before."

"It's nothing." The blunt of her fingernails dig deep into the palms of her hand, creating purple moons.

"How proud you are. There is no need. You've nowhere to fall in my eyes."

"You're angry." As Leliana is angry. "But I don't know why."

"Then you haven't been paying attention. I'm not angry. I'm frustrated. You could have made a difference. You could have bridged the gap between magic and non-magic and steered Thedas in a path towards unity. Instead, you're happy to continue the same traditions of oppression and division, using faith as a weapon."

"We've had this conversation before, Solas," she warns. "You misunderstood me then and you misunderstand me now."

"I remember the 'misunderstanding'. But I misunderstood nothing. We approach Kirkwall with templars in tow. What is our aim but to slaughter mages? This is the same madness that led to the Circle rebellions. Yet you are satisfied to repeat history. The very history that you've lived through. It is profoundly misguided."

"I'm not repeating anything. Our advisors were nearly killed in Kirkwall. The mage menace is out of control. You cannot claim the moral high ground and refuse to acknowledge when your kind is in the wrong."

"My 'kind'."

"I'm trying to save people."

"Tell yourself what you like. This is nothing but hate and fear mongering." Her fingers tighten around the reins. He looks back at the templars. Evelyn has seen how Dorian and Hawke get around them. But not Solas. "You may hesitate but they won't. It isn't their fault. They're enslaved by lyrium and religion and here you are at the head, leading the charge. You're all but endorsing this genocide. I would pity you if you did not willingly give yourself to this madness."

She grits her jaw, trying to keep her anger bottled. "Nothing has happened."

"Not yet."

* * *

Kirkwall is quiet. It's as if all sound has been stolen from the city.

Josephine looks around. The area is emptied outside of a few curious individuals dwelling in the shadows. All doors are closed. She's no warrior but the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Cullen, Vivienne, Cassandra and Hawke walk silently alongside of her as if marching towards their execution.

The city-guard greets them at the entrance to the Keep. Aveline studies Hawke. "For the record, the city-guard is sworn to protect the Viscount and this city." She looks to Josephine. "I'm hoping you'll handle this without the need for our interference."

"I will make every effort to resolve this matter peacefully."

"What if it can't be?" Hawke asks.

"It will," Josephine says. She stands as Hawke turns her back to Aveline, allowing her wrists to be shackled. Their eyes meet. Josephine anticipates her typical arrogance. Certainly she doesn't want to be here in Kirkwall defending this unlikable woman. And yet, Hawke's face has remnants of bruising. Her eyes lack the usual spark. She looks away. Josephine follows her gaze. There are some stragglers behind them. They turn on their heel and run away. "Do you know those people?" she asks Hawke.

"Oh, sure. Everyone in Kirkwall knows one another. You get a registry when you enter the city."

Josephine sighs inwardly, relieved when they're ushered inside. They're led to the Viscount's audience room.

The ceiling above is a splendor: fine red stained glass in the shape of Kirkwall's sigil, rains red on them. They cluster around the table along with Viscount Bran. The black jagged crown rests on his head. The crown is similar to the one Evelyn wears, but he looks small instead of imposing as she does.

His guards circle the room. Josephine wonders if he finds the Inquisition so threatening. They have dressed in their finest attire, though with Hawke's bruises it seems a mockery. She sits with her arms shackled behind her. It is an insult and she's been twitchy despite the pleasant smile on her lips.  _I'm just happy to get this over with. And if you muck it up, I'm already dressed for the brig_.

Josephine has no intention of 'mucking' it up. Vivienne, Cullen and Cassandra have joined them. Vivienne looks around the space as if she has been sent into squalor. Cullen and Cassandra sit to either side of Hawke. Both appear anxious.

Josephine takes a breath. "The Inquisition is pleased to receive an audience with you, Viscount. We are certain that any misunderstandings between us can be remedied." She injects cheer into her voice, as if the visit alone were enough to bring her pleasure. He turns to look at the group warily. "As you have no doubt realized, we have followed your demands. The Champion remains shackled and she has been brought here to discuss the crimes you allege."

"You'll excuse me if I take issue with your phrasing, Ambassador. Kirkwall alleges nothing. Hawke was present and involved in the destruction of Kirkwall. A great number of lives were lost the day of the explosion, not to mention how it has devastated the economy and the security of our fair city."

"Kirkwall, a fair city?" Hawke pipes up. "That's the first I've heard of it."

Josephine lifts a hand as if to hold her back. The last thing she needs is for the Champion to run her mouth and further agitate the Viscount. "No one denies that Kirkwall has suffered unimaginable tragedy," she says. "But to assign blame to the Champion does you no credit. Lady Hawke protected Kirkwall from the qunari menace. A threat that was allowed to lie dormant and fester by your predecessor Viscount Marlowe."

"The same Viscount she allowed to perish."

"While you wet yourself behind the throne and did nothing," Hawke says.

"Champion, that is enough," Josephine looks sharply at her. Hawke's lips thin and she glowers at the floor. "Forgive her. She has had a difficult experience here."

"As have we all."

"There is no one who truly believes that you might have prevented the death of Marlowe. At the same time, we cannot fault Hawke for his passing. While she may not have saved him, she saved many lives. Not only the citizens of Lowtown, threatened by the gaatlok, but those of Hightown. I have procured letters from many of those nobles whom Serah Hawke saved, speaking of her bravery during that difficult time." She produces them and extends them to Viscount Bran. He stands straighter but does not take them. "Shall I read them to you, Viscount?"

"I need not read their accounts."

"No? I think you would find yourself quite moved by some of their recollection."

"The Champion was not returned here to be lauded for her actions during the qunari uprising. She was brought here to atone for her involvement in the fall of Kirkwall. Namely the loss of our chantry and our citizens at the hands of her associate and lover Anders. Whatever good she did for Kirkwall was negated by  _that_  terrible event."

Josephine considers the words. Is that how balance works? Does one bad action undo all the good that has been done? Is it so simple? The thought makes her sick. "If you want to cast blame, perhaps you should blame the Chantry who utilized their religious dogma as a wea—" she sees Cullen and Cassandra shaking their head out of the corner of her eye. She shuts her mouth and regroups. Why can religion never be faulted? Why, when often it is the reason for such violence? "As I was saying… What happened was not in the Champion's power to prevent."

"And yet the citizens of Darktown say she helped the apostate gather peculiar materials prior to the explosion. What have you to say about that, Champion?"

Hawke looks at him. Her eyes shine despite her smile. "The citizens of Darktown will say anything for a copper. But yes, that's true. I've wished it weren't." Josephine puts a hand to her knee, hoping she'll go quiet. She continues. "I've wished I could undo it. But it's done. I know of no power to manipulate time. So I'm here, to face justice for his actions. Justice!" she laughs caustically. "It's funny because—oh. Never mind."

"Then you admit your guilt," Bran says.

"If Hawke did such damage to Kirkwall as you claim," Cassandra says, "then why did the Knight-Commander herself appoint her Champion? Your former Knight-Captain is here and you have not asked any questions about the very real injustices the templars perpetrated."

Cullen shifts. He has been more sullen and short tempered than usual. He looks a haunted man, one that has said little since arriving in Kirkwall. "I have been sent here to speak to the role of the templars during the Circle uprising," he says. "If you have any questions, I'm here to answer them."

"The templars role in this does not interest me," Bran says.

"A peculiar sentiment," Josephine says with a smile. "Had the Templars not enacted the Rite of Annulment there would have been no rebellions. But I imagine you find that inconvenient to speak of. The law of Kirkwall has always been to keep an apostate leashed. Knight-Commander Meredith, who all but ran Kirkwall save in name through the actions of your predecessor, wanted nothing more than to free Kirkwall from the mage menace. Despite Hawke's assistance she tried to kill her in the end and would have had it not been for Knight-Captain Cullen's intervention. Hawke left to avoid any further bloodshed befalling this city due to any witch-hunt—the exact kind that you are now orchestrating. Instead of staying behind to assist the citizens and innocents of Kirkwall, the templars fled. Templars are often thought of as the military of Thedas, intended to safeguard both mages and its citizens. In this case, they failed in both duties." Cullen's jaw twitches. "Now a new threat has settled here. The city-guard is powerless and though your personal guard certainly cuts a striking figure, they are equally powerless.  _Or…_  you are unwilling to give them the directive to keep the citizens of Kirkwall safe. You have stated that Kirkwall's well-being is your number one priority, so I am baffled that you have asked the Champion to return here when there are other, far more pressing matters to attend to. Have you asked her to return because she is the only one capable of keeping Kirkwall safe? Or are you looking for a convenient scapegoat now that our dear departed Varric no longer sends you a weekly sum of gold to keep you quiet?" Bran's face reddens. "Varric was from Kirkwall. He loved this city more than anyone. I doubt he sent you coin so you could buy your men such fine armor. Why  _is_  Kirkwall in the position it's in? Financially you are practically in default." One of Sera's Red Jennies was able to present her with Kirkwall's books. Charade. She never told her why she was willing to provide the favor. "The situation is dire. But instead of stationing your guard in Lowtown or Hightown, where it is needed most, I have been told this guard of yours is stationed at the Blooming Rose. I wonder what the nobles of Hightown, who don't even dare to go out anymore, would think of how you are neglecting the duties to your city. Kirkwall has not fallen because of the Champion. That is your doing."

Vivienne smiles. "I do applaud you, Ser Viscount. Mages are certainly difficult to manage, and yet you've all but housed the ones smart enough to not ally with the rabble, at the whorehouse. There are many gifts far superior to magic and I am pleased that you have allowed them to seek refuge there, unheeded."

"Some may question why you prioritize the safety of those individuals," Josephine adds. "But I am not amongst them. Skyhold was pleased to host you and your companion the last time you graced us with your presence. But I do wonder if the nobles of this fair city, the ones that allow you to rule either out of ignorance or sheer stupidity, would be as amiable to your leadership if they knew of your Serenity."

Hawke lifts her head to look at Bran. "The wh—"

Josephine keeps her eyes on Bran. "Do not speak, Champion." She directs the rest to Bran. "These letters, the ones you are intent on ignoring, as it appears, you have been intent on ignoring your people, come from the most affluent members of your city and they all write in support of Hawke. How would they feel if they knew you have brought her here for this nonsense? Will you excuse your guards now, Viscount, or shall I continue?"

There's a clinking of armor while the guards shift. "Get out," Bran barks. "All of you."

They leave. Josephine swallows. "That was wise. Men and women of all allegiances can be bought but what can never be bought is class or station." Her throat tightens. She squeezes the letters in her hands and forces her fingers to relax. "The members of this Inquisition have been attacked in your city. By men and women pretending at being templars, by mages. We were in the city not a week before this happened and from what I have seen, this is not a chance occurrence. Your citizens starve and the city is painted in the blood of your people, in excrement and urine. Your city falls to ruin while you squander the coin intended for this city, guarding your secrets. Not only is the Viscount of Kirkwall dallying with an elven woman, you dally with one who was a worker at the Blooming Rose. If you seek power in this, Viscount, you will not get it. It can be taken from you in an instant. Whatever the Arl of Redcliffe has promised you, whatever Prince Sebastian Vael has said you will gain, put it out of your head. You have chosen to make an enemy of the Inquisition and we do not take kindly to threats of our organization or our allies. The small power you have, the little reputation you have, can be taken from you. From what we have seen here, you are not fit to lead."

Hawke takes a breath, exhales, licks her lips. Some of the tension slips away from her. There is a silence.

Vivienne speaks. "I think it's time to admit, my dear Viscount, that you have been outplayed. While I share your concerns over the mage menace, I would turn my attention to the ones in this city of yours, running unchecked, rather than the literally leashed, and if I must say, rather useless one, before you."

"Your city is falling apart," Josephine says. "Instead of seeking to imprison the Champion that kept Kirkwall safe while she remained, battling against the templars that abandoned this city and brutalized its mages to the point where they turned to forbidden practices, perhaps you should look to your own governing failings and the best steps to help Kirkwall now. You will abandon this meaningless hunt. You would be wise to forfeit your allegiances and band with the Inquisition. In fact—"

There's a shout and the door bursts open. One of Bran's guards stumbles in, followed by several others. Bran growls. "What is it?"

"We're under attack." The guards surround him. "We must get you to safety."

Josephine's heart leaps to her throat. "Who is attacking?"

The first guard looks at her, unsure. "I'm not sure. Everyone."

* * *

Guards scramble. The Viscount has been herded off to safety. Cullen and Cassandra move out of the room, weapons bared. A snap of cold kisses along her wrists and then the chains that hold her splinter away. Hawke looks after Vivienne, who is already rushing off, likely agitated at having to assist her.

She lifts her hands, the chains attached to the shackles clinking. She starts to exit the room, the cries of alarm hurtling her memories back to years ago. A hand snaps onto her wrist. The Ambassador. "Where are you going?"

"To see what all the commotion is about."

"No, absolutely not. I forbid it." Hawke ignores her, moving away but Josephine takes her arm again. "Do you not understand? We did what we set out to do. You have your freedom. You are free to return to the Inquisition. Whatever happens now, stay out of it. Kirkwall is no longer your problem. You will undo everything."

"I can't stand by and do nothing. Not while I'm free. This is my city. Stay and hide if you like. You have no obligation."

Hawke moves, first at a light pace and then on a brisk run. She worries what she will find. She wonders if she will leave this city alive.

* * *

There's a flood at the gates.

Men and women swarm into the Keep. For a moment Hawke thinks she's been blasted back into time when the qunari wrecked havoc, when heads literally rolled. So much screaming. She doesn't understand it. Mages. Mages. And the city-guard. People running, shrieking in pain and fear. Some on fire as they dash to get away. Other mages choke on blood as they fall helplessly to the ground. She can't see Cullen or Cassandra. She turns her head back to where Josephine is. This is bad. She has to warn her. Josephine did as she was tasked. Hawke still isn't sure how she managed it. Not that it matters if she dies in the next few minutes.

She's prepared to go back when she hears a rallying cry. "There she is!" She anticipates the usual snarl of anger and is taken aback when she sees something akin to unbridled joy. "Champion!" "She's free!" Another one shouts. Hawke stops in her tracks. She recognizes them. Some are Circle mages. Not all. She sees the sharp armor of the others, the tips of their pointed robes. They've allied…? Why are they talking to her as if she were an ally?

For once in her life, she's speechless. Where's Aveline? Where's Cassandra to see it…? The mages come at her like a wave. Aveline shouts her name and Hawke turns. She sees it there for an instant, the doubt, the crushing doubt, the interminable question. "We saw them chain you." One says. A boy, no more than twenty with bright green eyes and blond hair. "We've come to free you, the way you freed us. Join with us. You've tilted the course of history. Help us finish it." He extends a hand.

Aveline seems far away. She looks at his hand, soft and untouched, but his arms are criss crossed with scars. She thinks of Merrill's arms and shakes her head. Where's Merrill. "We came for you," he says, "It's all right. We can take Kirkwall. You can lead us."

Snakes slither along the stairs, tongues flicking. "Hawke!" Aveline again. She rushes at them, sword out. What are you doing? But Hawke doesn't say it and the next instant Aveline's sword is through him. His face twists, going red, coughing blood. Hawke grabs her. It's hard. The armor is sharp and cold. Hawke pushes her back, away. Maybe it's instinct. Aveline grabs tight hold of her. There's screaming all around but all she can see are the lines in Aveline's eyes, the toll the years have taken on her, the crinkle of her nose as she slams her into the wall. The air goes out of her. Cassandra did this too. She's never felt very strong at all.

"Why did you do that, why did you do that?" Hawke asks. "He was a boy."

"That 'boy' killed Brennan not two minutes ago," her face is white with rage, "and here I see you looking as if you're ready to take his hand. Tell me it isn't what I think, Hawke. They've rushed in here shouting your name." A shriek and Aveline's gone off to defend worthier others. Hawke looks at the mage, bleeding empty with tears in his eyes. Maybe he's a villain. Maybe she's responsible.

* * *

Josephine looks out the window. Columns of smoke spiral towards the sky like snakes. She is uncertain of where she should go. Escaping out the window is no option. The fall would liquefy her. She's lightheaded. She can think of no words to resolve this. Men and women are screaming, blood curdling cries. She does not hear the clash of swords and that frightens her more. Are mages attacking?

She wonders if the others will return. Should she remain in here? And if they storm the room? What will she do?  _You will die._  Her legs go weak. She has to get to the others. It is impossible to barricade these doors. To get out she must head towards danger. She walks cautiously to the door. Everywhere there is chaos. Fire and ice fly through the air, city-guards combatting mages while others attempt to help nobles escape. Their fear takes the air from her. Does she envy them or pity them for being newly acquainted with such violence?

People flow like currents, the air punctuated by the occasional cry. She doesn't recognize anyone. She sees men and women with red-rimmed eyes and flushed, sweaty faces. Not mages but a look that is familiar to her, one she can't allow herself to linger over. They hack into mages. Into nobles. There's blood everywhere, flowing out of the nobles cut in half, the mages cut in half, the mages turning blades on themselves. Other city-guard members and nobles are scattered, lying twisted like broken toys or thrown dolls.

She runs down the stairs, faster than she ever has in her life, hating her dress, her shoes, the shackles, shrieking and kicking when her ankle is grabbed, some invisible hand on the floor. She flees outside, pushing past the bodies rushing in. The air is several degrees colder. The sweat on her face chills her instantly. She sprints, twisting her ankle, losing her heel, staggering and limping forward, only to slam into a body. Strong hands grip her shoulders. She fights. She screams. In the end does it always come down to fighting?

"Josephine. Josephine!" Josephine stops, the voice some ghost she has longed to forget. She looks up at her face, as pale as ever, cheeks rosy, silver eyes seeming to shimmer. A sob pushes past Josephine's lips and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle it. "Are you all right?" Josephine looks past her. There are bodies everywhere. Templars march closer. Evelyn calls her name again. "Are you hurt?" Josephine shakes her head. "Where are the others?"

"I don't know. They rushed ahead when they heard the Keep was under attack." She looks back and forward again. Evelyn's eyes darken. "I should have searched… I should have—"

"It's all right." She looks at her with more kindness than Josephine thought she'd ever see again. Solas, beside her, stands straighter, looking about dissatisfied. There is a large group of templars behind her. This is what she feared. This is what she tried to prevent. Was she naïve? She is grateful to them now. She notices then that Blackwall stands beside Evelyn. Josephine glances at him but looks back to Evelyn. "Blackwall will take you somewhere safe. We'll meet later. We've brought reinforcements from Skyhold. We won't lose this city."

Josephine wants to thank her, wants to apologize, wants to warn her to be safe. Her armor is thin, despite carrying the greatsword again. Evelyn doesn't wait. She moves forward towards the Keep. Blackwall ushers her away from the carnage but it stays with her. There's been so much she doesn't know how to forget.

* * *

A violent force flings Evelyn back. She only has a moment to see the battle happening many feet below before she drops onto the staircase. Something cracks. She's out of breath and disoriented, the world pulsing red. She moves her fingers. Her legs. Touches her ribs and grimaces. Something's not right there but it's survivable. Her vision swims. Legs scurrying, stopping, fighting. Robes. Metal. She has to get up. She has to catch her breath. A hand wraps around her arm. "On your feet, Inquisitor." Solas yanks her up but the air remains absent from her lungs. Where are the others? At least Josephine is safe. At least there's that. "This is madness," he says.

Tapestries burn. The city-guard is being decimated. Evelyn takes it all in. She needs to act but her legs are weak.  _Andraste give me strength. Maker guide me._  "We must end this." She doesn't know whether she's spoken aloud. Her hand crackles and she grabs it, a firebrand of pain radiating from her hand to the rest of her arm. No. No. This can't be happening. Not now. She tries but can't stifle a yowl. Light emanates like veil fire. They see it. They recognize it. The Inquisitor. From the look in their eyes, their enemy.

She spots Cullen and Cassandra, bloodied and aiding the city-guard. Vivienne fights back a swarm of apostates. They're overwhelmed.

The light shoots from her hand and to the sky. A boom like rolling thunder sounds, deafening, shaking the chandeliers, rattling paintings off the walls. It drops her to her knees. For a moment the fighting stops. A heavy hush fills the room. Her arm burns. She sweats and tries to swallow her whimper. She cannot pull the sky open; she will not spill demons into this room, even if her arm seems eager to do just that. She massages her hand with the other. Her senses are slipping. There is only the pain. Solas looks at her dispassionately. "I can't control this," she says.

"You can." She barely registers the words the pain is so acute. She forces herself to stand straight, to look as if nothing is amiss, even as sweat runs down her face. They'll know her weakness. They'll destroy the Inquisition through her. Solas reaches out, hand swallowing her own. The touch is like a balm, the light buried. He has restored to her some measure of control. Remarkable. His disappointment is palpable. How did he do that? How? "If you have any message now is the time."

A final swell of blind, numbing pain passes through her and then it begins to dissipate and she's certain the sky won't pull apart. She lifts her voice. Through effort, through the Maker, it is strong and steady, despite how she shakes. "I am Evelyn Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste. I have come to save this city from the corruption that has infested it. Any mage who falls to their knees and surrenders will be spared. Continue this meaningless fight and die where you stand."

They see her fear. Her doubt. Maybe this is a test. Maybe being the Inquisitor is enough to warrant death. They attack. "Templars!" She shouts. They rush forward. Her military, bright and burning, flushed with zeal and righteousness. Their swords whistle. Blood begins to flow.

* * *

The Herald makes a declaration but Hawke doesn't hear it.

They're after her. For years she worried it'd be the men and women clad in steel that would give chase. When she first arrived in Kirkwall she was crippled with guilt when they battled. Wouldn't lives be saved if she just allowed herself to be taken to the Circle? But it would have killed her mother so she fought. As time passed, she took a sick satisfaction in ending them. She told herself she was saving others from their abuse. She was but it bothered her.

The templars that chase her now are unfamiliar. They're thin and pasty, dripping sweat. Their clothing is dirty and oversized. They look like Cullen, like the Inquisitor, only much further gone. Is that what they will end up like? Is that what it is to give up lyrium?

She throws down a paralyzing glyph. For a second they slow, trying to pull free as if they'd been drawn into quicksand. It doesn't hold them long. They swipe with their swords and she scrambles back, falling, erecting a shield of ice as they slam their weapons down. The ice shatters, blocks crumbling onto her as she staggers to her feet and tries to create distance between them.

They're gaining and she realizes they've cut her arm. The ragged breath she hears is her own. She stretches a hand out and they stumble back. If she'd had her staff she'd have thrown them clear across the room. Can she fight them? These are like the ones Cassandra spoke of. The ones that left her bruised for days. The ones that took patches of her memory. Search as she does for those memories, they aren't there. Josephine told her not to cause problems. She doesn't have her staff or lyrium to bolster her capabilities. There is barely any lyrium in her blood. It won't matter if she digs deep. She's cornered. They look feral. Can she make it past them? How can she make it past them? Blood magic…? No. Not that. Not ever.

A figure approaches behind them, blade and face clad in blood. Thin leather armor. Hawke stiffens. The Inquisitor. She knows whose blood she wears. She stinks of it. She came here with a templar army. Her blood chills. The templars looks anxiously between them. The Inquisitor's voice is flat. "Lay down your weapons."

One of them scoffs. "Who are you? Another mage?" A man leaps, sword at the ready. Maker. Evelyn lifts the greatsword, only barely deflecting the attack. She looks tired. "I'm no mage. I'm the Inquisitor. Herald of Andraste." They're not sure. "The Champion is our ally. If you are templars and you follow Andraste and the Chantry as you claim, you will let her go."

"Herald of Andraste," one of the women says, "where were you when her kind was taking us? For near a year now. Dragging us to the Gallows. Using us for their… sickness."

Hawke's stomach turns. The Inquisitor looks at her as if she were guilty. "It wasn't her."

"It was in her name."

"Lay down your weapons," Evelyn repeats, "you can join us in the Inquisition." The hair on the back of Hawke's neck stands on end. An Inquisition with them? With the people who beat her? The ones that want her dead?

"No, no," the woman says, "you're not going to talk us out of it." She looks at Hawke with hateful eyes. Hawke recognizes her. That's Ruvena, isn't it? That templar recruit from the Gallows over a decade ago. She looks so old. She shouldn't look so old. "You ruined this city! You! All of it! Do you know how many templars we lost?" They charge. Hawke presses her back to the wall. She squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe it's only right that she die in Kirkwall. The Inquisitor will tell the others… Oh. She doesn't know. Maybe it'll be a relief. A rest. But Cassandra. And Carver. And Varric. She thinks of them.

Hot splashes her face. For moments she doesn't understand what she hears are screams that cut away. Her eyes open. The Inquisitor stands horrified. The templars lay in pieces. They're so small and thin. Hawke stares at the faces of the dead, their terror permanently frozen. She looks at Evelyn who turns and vomits.

* * *

The floor is sticky red. Heat pulses where blood splashed her. Inquisition templars stand over the kneeling, surrendering mages, weapons at their neck while the city-guard scramble to find shackles for them. Everyone is dazed and lethargic. Cullen, Cassandra and Vivienne stand ahead, conferring while Hawke argues with a templar with a sword to a woman's neck. Evelyn moves over, Solas at her side.

"This must please you," he says, stepping over the body of a fallen woman.

She can still taste the bile in her mouth. Her ribs throb. Her knuckles are battered. Her leg bleeds.

"Nothing about this situation pleases me."

"No? You came here with an army ready to cut down any opposition. The mages are behaving exactly as you anticipated. It's no wonder you left Dorian back at Skyhold. You wouldn't want him to see you like this."

She left Dorian at Skyhold because she wanted someone she trusted there to keep an eye on things. To fight at Leliana's side if need be. There's no point in telling Solas that. He's already made up his mind. "My aim is to keep the people of Kirkwall safe and that is what I have done." Even as so many lay lifeless on the floor. She wonders where the Viscount is. Does he live?

"I wonder how long anyone can be kept safe here. The Veil is practically non-existent."

She arrives where Hawke is. "What's going on here?" The woman on her knees is a Dalish mage, pale beneath the blood.

"This templar won't let Merrill go," Hawke says. "She's a friend. She was helping the city-guard."

"This woman is a blood mage," the templar says, pressing the blade tighter to her neck. "I have not killed her, Inquisitor, because she surrendered but we cannot allow her ilk to live."

A trickle of blood forms at her neck. Evelyn sees Hawke's quiet desperation. The elven woman's eyes are bold and defiant. "Have you anything to say for yourself?" Evelyn asks.

"What answers do you expect," Solas asks, "with a blade at her neck?"

Merrill looks at him with interest before turning her eyes to Evelyn. "Kirkwall was Varric's home. It's my home. I have fought to keep it safe before and I fought for it today. Do what you wish, Inquisitor. I don't expect the opinion of a Dalish elf will mean anything to you."

Solas rolls his eyes.

"I'll take her somewhere," the templar says. "Out of sight. No one will miss a blood mage."

The terror in Hawke and Merrill's eyes is unmistakable. She thinks of Soldrian and looks at the templar. "What is your name, templar?" The templar gives it, armor glistening with blood. Evelyn repeats it to herself in her mind, memorizes the face. "That will be all. I'll take over from here."

"But—"

"I've given you an order." The templar grudgingly lowers the blade, bows and moves on. A long silence follows, Evelyn contemplating the woman at her feet. Hawke helps her stand before thanking Evelyn.

" _Are_  you a blood mage?" Evelyn asks the elf.

The elf looks from her to Hawke. Hawke moves to stand in front of her, eyes blazing. "You stay away from her."

Solas chuckles. Evelyn's innards twist. Blood mages. Her face and lips tingle and start to go numb. "Gather your allies," Evelyn tells Hawke shakily, "and if need be, tell them to get out. From this point forward, Kirkwall belongs to the Inquisition."

* * *

Hawke turns at footsteps. The creaky gate closes. She's enclosed in the small graveyard with the Inquisitor. It's dusk and Evelyn's hand glows like a beacon. She rolls her fingers closed, hiding it behind her back, fixating on her mother's tombstone. Hawke bites her tongue, not knowing what to say. She spared Merrill. So she'll be grateful to her.

The Inquisitor speaks first. "What a day."

"You can say that again. But don't. That joke's worn thin."

Not even a smile. "I've spoken to Cassandra. I never received her letter. Maybe someone shot the bird down or it got lost…" She rubs her forehead. "I'm sorry for what happened to you. The templars." She says the words so quickly Hawke hardly hears them. "I wonder how much can one city suffer?"

"Your templars killed the mages who wouldn't surrender." Not including those cut down before given the ultimatum. But that was right, wasn't it? They were attacking innocents. But they're the same oppressed group. Does she always have to defend them? Must she, if no one will ever let her forget she's one of them?

"And spared the others."

"Do you think that's right?"

"The Maker is with me. I cannot doubt my resolve."

"Maybe He isn't with you. Maybe He doesn't exist." Hawke faces her glower and then looks away. "What comfort do we take in the things that He allows? And don't talk to me about His plan. Isn't that what people tell themselves because they can't bloody explain it? It's comfort food."

"I know the Maker exists."

"You don't. You want to believe it. We want to believe things and we delude ourselves. Look at what's happened here. Look at what the mages have done." Her voice splinters. She rubs her face. She clears her throat. "Forget it. Maybe I'm jealous. It must be nice to have something to believe in. A good alternative when the first plan goes to shit."

"The Maker belongs to everyone. He can belong to you, too." Hawke glares at the grave. No. He isn't her Maker. "Those mages were said to be chanting your name."

"It wouldn't be the first time someone's done that." The Herald remains humorless. "You know how my mother died." The Herald gives a small nod. "I know why people fear my kind. Anders always said that maleficar were pushed there out of fear. I used to believe that but it isn't always true. Look at Quentin and Tevinter. Look at what happened here. I can't make sense of it. Some want power and they'll do whatever it takes to get it."

"It's not only mages that are power hungry."

Is this a peace offering? "I once believed mages were owed retribution or something like it. But how will things ever change if we keep on like this? Anders wanted a revolution. So did I. But I don't know how this is making things better." A beat. "Will you kill the mages who participated in the rebellion?"

For moments the Herald says nothing and Hawke fears the silence is answer enough. "I said those who surrendered would be spared but they rushed the Keep with the intention of killing the Viscount and the city-guard. There's only one way I know of keeping such mages from being a menace."

Hawke freezes. So much setting aside their differences. "Will you make them Tranquil? You can't do that. That's not—they aren't even people."

"Then what are they?" Hawke doesn't have an answer. "Do you know that the rebel mages were abusing the Tranquil? Using their skulls as some sort of magical telescope, amongst other things."

"That's disgusting."

"Does it matter, if they aren't people?" Hawke buries her fingers in the grass, further into the soil. "I thought we could restore the Circle here." Hawke's jaw hurts. Her fingers dig further. "But that won't work. More of these Venatori will come and without Cullen and Cassandra here… Without Vivienne…" she exhales. "I can't give them up. I need them for the Inquisition."

"What are you saying?"

"I'll leave a squadron of templars and soldiers here. The city must be protected. It belongs to the Inquisition now and we haven't resolved the matter with the Starkhaven prince yet. If he still wants to battle he'll have to come to Skyhold. And he will lose."

"I doubt it'll come to that. He might be a self-righteous prick, but he isn't stupid. Even if he is one of your lot."

"My lot?"

"Andrastian."

"So was Varric." Hawke goes silent. "We'll bring the surrendering mages back to Skyhold."

"And do what with them?"

"They can ally and integrate with the Inquisition. That's what you and Leliana are always on about, isn't it? And bloody Josephine," she grumbles.

"That's a generous offer."

"I can be generous."

"Not all the mages were from the Circle. Some were Venatori."

"Yes."

"And you'll just let them wander in?"

"Our people will have a talk with them. Extract what we can about Corypheus and Calpernia and then we can decide what happens."

"You'll kill them?"

"I never said I'd let them wander out."

"I don't understand. Why  _not_  restore the Circle? You're a templar. You likely agree with what Meredith did here." There's a spark of anger in her eyes. Hawke tries to understand. _Why_  does it matter that her advisors can't remain if the templars will? Why drag everyone back to Skyhold? She thinks of the templar with the blade to Merrill's neck. The ones that chased her at the Keep. She holds her breath. She doesn't trust them. The templar Inquisitor doesn't trust them. She wants to keep an eye on them. That must be it. Is she deluding herself? She can't ask. She wants to hang to this thread of hope. "Never mind. What about the whores at the Rose?"

"The what?" Hawke tells her. "I don't know." She looks troubled. "They can do what they want, so long as they're not hurting others." She looks at her. "You took quite a beating."

"You're one to talk." Hawke spent minutes trying to mend her ribs before Vivienne shooed her off and did the job herself. "I'm just glad there's another punching bag. It's about time I got a rest."

"You won't get a rest. I won't get a rest. You were right when you tried to warn me."

"Are you regretting not absconding in the dead of night?"

"No. But I wonder if only the Warden gets to rest. Will you stay here?"

"That is the question, isn't it? Do I stay and help or do I leave and stop the calamity that is inflicted everywhere I go?" The Inquisitor scratches her left palm absently. "How do you fix a situation like this? Men fear mages, men attack mages, mages fight back, men die, men fear mages. It's a vicious cycle. It's like wildfire. How do you control such a thing? With templars?" That can't be the solution.

Evelyn massages her hand, stretching her fingers out. "We'll need more than templars. Hawke." She looks at the tombstone. "How would you feel about becoming Viscount?"

* * *

The carriage hits a bump and the Inquisitor, who'd been dozing against the window, rouses. Josephine's gloved fingers tighten in her lap, taking in folds of dress material. Evelyn looks as if she's woken from a years long slumber, but she's slept less than a minute. She looks at her, crosses her arms and leans into the wall of the carriage again.

The Inquisitor has had a long journey and now they return to Skyhold after yet another battle. Josephine wonders if she will ever see the Inquisitor's face without bruising again. Or if she'll ever see her smile. She is another woman from the one that joined the Inquisition. At the time Josephine thought her overly serious, but she was lighthearted in comparison to the woman she's become.

Had she known the Inquisitor would join her carriage, she might have prepared for any conversations. A heavy rainstorm prompted the Inquisitor to join her. Josephine presumes because it happened to be the carriage closest by. The Inquisitor has said almost nothing to her since they ran into one another at the Keep. Josephine has dwelled over the pressure of her fingers on her shoulders, her reassurances. She seemed relieved to see her then and now it's back to this indifference. "You must be happy to return to Skyhold," Josephine tells her. The last time she was in Skyhold, Leliana and Evelyn seemed to be in leagues with one another. Are they closer still now? Her imagination is not kind.

Evelyn shifts. She rubs her eyes and Josephine's eyes trail over the scar on her mouth. Somehow stitching it shut brought them together. What tore them apart? All the other invisible damage they sustained and inflicted while with one another. "There's a great deal to attend to. It never ends."

"Surely there is some joy to returning." Evelyn looks at her and Josephine knows that she knows. A few careless words on the balcony at Halamshiral and her deepest insecurities are at the forefront. Leliana always did say her emotional outbursts were the greatest deterrent to gaining status in the Game. If Evelyn does indeed detest insincerity and games, aloofness, then how can she possibly turn her gaze towards Leliana? Is it only her looks? She is the spymaster, after all. "There's nothing like returning to your proper bed."

"I have missed it." She's lost in memory. What memories? Then she's back in the present. "You had quite the trip to Kirkwall. First the attack at the Gallows and then at the Keep." Josephine's fingers dig into her thighs and she frowns, looking down at the flash of pain as if it were some other that has caused it. "But you made it out in one piece. I'm glad."

"Are you truly?"

"Whatever happened between us, I don't want any harm to come to you."

It shouldn't surprise her. "Yes. I am safe. Thanks to you."

"But not you. Cullen sent a letter. He told me what happened." She scratches her forehead absently. "I cannot fathom whether you think me stupid—"

"No—"

"Then you think me a tyrant."

Her throat locks up. It takes her some time to speak. "It was not my wish to misrepresent the situation."

"That was exactly your wish. If not for Cullen's letter, I would not have known any better and how many would be dead? Perhaps even you." She's angry. The last time Josephine heard such fire in her voice was when she told her to never come near her again after the situation with Otranto.

"The situation was resolved." Josephine realizes that she hasn't been looking at her. That she can't. "Now we must make certain that all parties come together to decide the best path forward for Kirkwall and the Inquisition. I do not believe we should allocate too many resources there."

"Will you stop talking to me as if I were another one of your diplomats?"

"How should I talk to you?" She dares a glance at her. "I no longer know how. I am like a pet hound you bark orders to." Evelyn narrows her eyes. "I think about it constantly. I regret but I come to no answers. It was my wish to resolve this peacefully. I worried that telling you what happened would result in… I wanted to save lives."

"What do I want?"

"I was wrong," she says before shame softens her words. "In all things with you I have been wrong. I made a poor decision. I now recognize that had Cullen not written that letter the results might have been catastrophic. I have no words or apology to rectify my actions. I have lost my unshakeable faith in the power of words." Has she any purpose? Has everything she's worked for been meaningless? "I accept if you wish for me to resign my post with the Inquisition."

"You might have said so earlier." She looks out the window and to her. Josephine holds her breath. "We're nearly at Skyhold." They listen to the carriage plod along. Josephine's heart sinks. Despite the brightness of the day she's gone cold. "You resolved the situation with the Viscount." She looks her over. "I don't believe you want to leave."

"I have nothing to offer. I displease you. I displease Leliana. I displease myself. I'm lonely." Evelyn flinches. "Perhaps I should return to Antiva and marry Lord Otranto. I can bear his children and run the family business. That is all. That is all."

"Is that what you want? Will that satisfy you?"

"I cannot have what I want."

"And that is…?" Josephine is silent. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you can't have what you want. That could change moving forward. But odds are that it will be uncomfortable, so you won't even try."

She flushes. "You speak to me about trying? About taking a stand even when it makes you uncomfortable? Did you not ally with the templars only so your family would not be disappointed?"  _They don't even care about you._  She bites back those words. She's grateful she has.

"I did what I now think is the right thing for the wrong reasons and I'll have to live with that. Just as I will have to live with the lives that have been lost in the pursuit of the Inquisition's advancement. I wish I could still believe that all things are as simple as black and white, right and wrong."

"I fail to see what any of this has to do with my so-called cowardice."

"I spent so much of my life trying desperately not to stick out. Trying to go with the flow. I always screwed it up but I tried the best I knew how. But that gets exhausting. Sometimes we stand there, waiting for it to end because it's easier than dealing with the things we don't want to face." She pauses. "We were attacked by a dragon on our way to Adamant. I never told you about it because it was embarrassing. I nearly destroyed everything. The Inquisition. Hawke. Cassandra."

_Why?_  Josephine doesn't say it but Evelyn must see the question.

"I had a conversation with Cassandra that affected me. I disappointed her. To this day, we haven't really come back from that. It's healed some but at the time I was desperate. It was after Crestwood and the Venatori. I was paranoid and afraid. The talk with Cassandra was the last straw. I felt like garbage. I'd let her down. The look on her face crushed me. She was so important to me. I didn't have Dorian then. I didn't have –" She stops. "It didn't seem to me that there was anything worth living for. I didn't know it then but I saw that dragon and I wanted it to kill me. It didn't. Cassandra saved me. Hawke saved her. It wasn't until later that I realized how selfish I'd been. I don't know. I wasn't in the right state of mind."

Josephine tries to wrap her mind around the timeline. This happened at Adamant. When they were together. The Inquisitor found no reason for living. Is she meant to take it personally? Is she self-centered? What lesson is she trying to impart on her? She cannot focus on it.

Evelyn continues. "I wonder if you and I are all that different. Death comes in many ways. This thing you do, not wanting to let anyone down, ever. It's a different way of dying. Slower. You're the ambassador, yet you keep ending up in all sorts of terrible situations. But what kind of life are you returning to? I suppose all I meant to say is that the initial blow hurts—bearing that disappointment— but it's survivable. I think it's worth it to be happy."

Josephine exhales softly. Is Evelyn happy now? That doesn't seem fair. "And you think I have never disappointed anyone? I did not think it possible but you have an impossibly high opinion of me."

"My disappointment never mattered to you. Not enough to think of yourself, to think of me, to think of us. Do you know how I used to cry about that?" She looks out the window, perhaps afraid to face her. "This unwavering conviction you have to follow through on your commitments. I can't tell if it's pathetic or if you're the strongest person I've ever known." She considers it, her eyes drifting off in thought. "Anyway," she says, as if in an aside. "That headlong rush towards oblivion. I don't feel that way anymore."

* * *

An Inquisition soldier trots to the carriage as she steps out of it. Evelyn sighs. They've been at Skyhold not two minutes. The guard looks from Josephine to her. "Apologies, Ma'am. Mother Gisele is looking for you. She's at the Chantry. She says it's urgent."

Is anything ever not urgent? All she wanted was a nap or a bite to eat, a bath. To see Leliana. It's cold here. She stands at the gate looking out. The soldiers and templars will be returning with the mages shortly. They've been instructed on where to take them. "Right. I'm on my way." She looks to Josephine but doesn't know what to say to her. She nods and makes her way to the chantry.

She half-expected an audience but Mother Gisele is the only one there. Evelyn moves further in. Mother Gisele turns her head to look at her. They didn't have a great start. Evelyn was dismissive towards the Maker and the Chantry. Not only that, Mother Gisele dislikes Dorian for reasons that don't seem fair.  _For the same reasons you initially distrusted him?_ She puts the thoughts out of her mind.

"Ah. So at last I get an audience with the Inquisitor. Come in, my child. Have a seat next to me." Evelyn approaches, cautious and nervous. Many older women have spoken to her like this before. It usually led to some kind of seduction. Not this time. She's a Revered Mother. And she's involved. Her thoughts spiral for what seems like an eternity but must only be seconds. She sits next to her. "You've had a long journey. I am happy to see you returned to us in one piece. Praise be to the Maker."

She repeats the words. "I heard you wanted to see me."

"Yes. I know you have only just returned. I am sorry to have you collected so quickly but this matter is of great importance." Mother Gisele stares ahead, eyes narrowed. "We had a visitor earlier. She waited a long time but you were nowhere to be found. In time I convinced her to pass the message along to me. What she said was… surprising. But perhaps not so surprising as it should be."

Evelyn shifts on the bench. "Are you planning on telling me what it was?" Or is she planning on telling her that Leliana is engaged? The thought stabs into her stomach. Evelyn wonders if she'll always resent Gisele for being the one to reveal the news.

"In time. But first, a question, Inquisitor. There are rumors swirling around Skyhold about your involvement with the spymaster. Are they true?"

"I fail to see how that's any of your business." She snaps. Odd. The hunger that plagued her in Skyhold went while she was away. Now that she's back she craves lyrium again. She thinks of the supply that will be brought from Kirkwall and feels her skin itch and warm at the thought.

"I see." A silence passes. "Well, as you likely know, the remaining clerics and members of the Chantry have been working furiously to find a new Divine. It seems they have narrowed the field down to two candidates. It should surprise no one but I think it will be a shock all the same."

"Is it me?" She's a Trevelyan, from a long line of Andrastian nobles. Her family has no doubt been peddling her name and trying to net themselves the best prize they can. She hopes it's not her.

"You? No, my child. They are considering our Seeker Pentaghast for the position. As well as Leliana. The Left Hand and the Right. They must be vetted, of course. They have asked for you to send them both to the White Spire right away so they can begin their deliberations. As the Inquisitor you will no doubt wield tremendous influence on the final decision. Should you decide to support either one, I would urge you to consider wisely, no matter your personal attachments. This, even more than the Inquisition, could decide the final path for Thedas. It is not a decision to be taken lightly." Minutes pass in silence. "Are you well, my child?"

She's not her child, she's no one's child. The foolish thoughts of a child. "Have you told anyone about this?"

"You're the only one."

"Keep it that way." She exits in a daze. The sun is too bright. The air scant in her lungs. They want to take them. They want to take them both.


	31. Sacrifice

The coronation ceremony was hours ago. Cullen settled the crown on Hawke's head, before their army of templars. His hands shook. Everyone made the appropriate declarations. The banner of the Inquisition spilled free behind them while the templars and the city-guard saluted in unison. The citizens filling the Keep cheered. Hawke didn't seem happier for it.

Now they're in the Viscount's office. Hawke turns away from the window to look about uncertainly. "I remember when I used to come here desperate to earn a copper," she tells Cassandra. The crown still sits on her head. There isn't a hair out of place. She looks as if she's transcended herself. Cassandra sits on the plush red velvet chair and looks up at her, wondering if all her love will be so short lived. "There's a ball later tonight to commemorate this prestigious appointment," she rolls her eyes. "I'm sure the nobility is absolutely tickled to have an excuse for their debauchery again."

"You will be a good Viscount," Cassandra notices how stiff her voice is and considers, staring at her hands before looking at her again. "You love this city. You will do well by it."

"'Love' is a little strong." There's a beat. "For a city, anyway." A silence passes. "I know we didn't plan for this."

Cassandra doesn't know what she refers to. The viscountship? Their relationship? The Inquisition taking over Kirkwall? All significant. All changing what might have been of them. "It's for the best. The Inquisitor is giving you her templars. It would appear she trusts you after all."

"Sure. All I have to do is write regular reports to the lot of you so we can be sure I'm behaving myself."

Yes, that was part of the agreement. The situation with the lyrium, the diplomatic ties that remain, and most importantly, the tensions between mages and templars must be rigorously documented. Hawke is to keep in close communication with all of them. Cullen and herself in particular, so that a balance remains. Cassandra wonders if the Inquisitor has grown soft. She never dreamed the Inquisitor would offer Hawke the Viscountship. Perhaps things would have been different had she known. To think that she told Hawke to not forget her diary when she left. "To their benefit, you are not known for behaving."

"Will you stay for the festivities?"

"No," she stands. "I must return to Skyhold. I have been here too long already. The Inquisitor needs me. And I remain concerned with her arm." What happened at the Keep is worrisome. Is the Anchor spreading again? Will it kill her?

"What can you do about it?"

"I can support her. I can fight at her side."

"I imagine you'll be getting on much better without me about." She crosses her arms gingerly. "It was foolish to hope you might stay." She bows her head, the toe of her boot digging on the red carpet before she lifts her head, a weathered smile on her lips.

"You talk as if we'll never see each other again."

"Everything passes by so fast. All the good."

"We  _will_  see each other again." Hawke stands straighter, arms still crossed. "Kirkwall and Skyhold are not so far apart." What is a sea, what are countries between them? "This war will not go on forever. Frankly, I doubt it will go much longer at all. It will be different when it ends. But you're right. It seems all the good is fleeting and I cannot say exactly when it will be done. If you would like to…" she doesn't know the words. "If it is your intent to dissolve this and keep the company of others, I will not stop you."

"I could probably find someone faster than it takes to say your full name." Cassandra frowns. Hawke moves around to the desk and pulls open a drawer. She holds a letter out to her. It's got two seals on it. One she recognizes as the Viscount's crest, the other as the Amell's. "I suppose I went a bit overboard with the seals. I thought that things might…" she stops, takes a breath. "I wanted you to have it. I intend on regular correspondence, if that's all right. It's not as good as Varric's work, but I thought you could make an exception."

Cassandra takes the letter. "Shall I open it now?"

Hawke shakes her head. "It's business. I'll send a proper letter later." Oh. "I don't know why the Inquisitor put me in charge of all this. I don't know how to fix anything outside of beating the Void out of it."

They are similar in that regard. "You are intended to keep order."

"And she picked me? That proves it. She really doesn't know what she's doing."

"You make jokes but I do not believe she chose poorly." Even if some selfish part of her wishes she wouldn't have asked Hawke. Why not ask Aveline? She is an upstanding woman. Would it have made a difference if she'd answered 'yes' when Hawke asked if she needed her? Would it have been a lie? It's too late for that now. Wishful thinking will not change the outcome. "As you know the Inquisitor chose well. Who here would you entrust Kirkwall to?" Cassandra half expects Hawke to name her but all she does is thin her lips. "I would have restored the Circle and been done with it."

"Would you?" her voice is sharp. "In this city?"

"These are our templars. Not Meredith's."

"It's the culture of the templars that's the problem, not that they're from Kirkwall. As a Seeker, how can you misunderstand something so fundamental?"

"I will not discard the templar order or the Chantry's teachings over the actions of a few bad eggs. There are things the Chantry and the Order remain too conservative about, but I would not throw away all the good they've created."

"Then I'm glad it was the Inquisitor who decided."

Hawke appears frustrated. It is not how she wanted for them to end things. She looks at Hawke in the crown and with the regal bearing. Her eyes are a deep, clear blue, as far and distant as the oceans that will soon be between them. "It's time for me to depart. Have a care." She forces some levity in her voice. "Some responsibility might do you good."

"You sound like Aveline. This duty that we're bound to. It's a possession, isn't it? Completely irrational. We've done enough. More than enough. Why can't we have this?"

"We can have it." Why does she make it sound like they can't? Cassandra wonders if she's being naïve.

"You really are an idealist. I know we disagree more often than not. I'm not the praying kind. To this day I still don't know that He exists. If He does, is He anything more than rubbish?" Cassandra's jaw tenses. "But I'll pray for you. Every day I'll pray for you if it helps keep you safe. Especially given that you won't have a plucky blood mage along to help you get out of scrapes."

"Do not say that. Even in jest."

Hawke shrugs, as if she really can't help herself. "All right."

"Marian." She searches for words. Hawke waits with dancing eyes. Nothing eloquent comes to mind. "I will keep you in my heart." Stupid clumsy words. That's always been her way.

"Should I be worried? You have such an open heart, anyone might stroll into it."

"Don't be absurd." As if she takes these things so lightly. There's a knot in her throat. She will miss her and it makes her want to cry. It's ridiculous given how composed Hawke appears. Perhaps Hawke's lost enough that this will not touch her. "I never told you. You look very fine today. You will make an excellent ruler. Varric would be proud."

"If a pretty face is all it takes." There's a knock at the door and Hawke looks to it apprehensively before her look turns irritated and regretful. "Duty calls." Duty always calls. Hawke takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Have a safe journey back to Skyhold. I'll miss you."

Cassandra closes her arms around her. Hawke returns her embrace tightly. A brief and nearly chaste kiss and they part, making hazy promises to see one another soon before Hawke ushers in the visiting dignitary. Cassandra looks back. Hawke watches, seems relieved to see her turn back. She winks, smiles and closes the door.

* * *

"Have I told you how much I detest this templar tower of yours?" Dorian looks at the suit of armor on display, observing his reflection before turning his attention to the tapestries bearing the insignia of the Order. He crinkles his nose and strides closer, crossing his arms and looking at her sternly. " _I_  think it's a bit much and I'm from Tevinter. Our buildings levitate! You've been cooped up in here since you returned from Kirkwall. You're still a templar. No need to bury yourself in it to get the mage stench off."

Evelyn sets the quill down and wonders how much of what he says is jest and how much he actually believes. "I'm going over the roster of mages." He moves around to look over her shoulder. "Do you know them?"

"We don't all know each other." A beat. "Oh! Augustus! That scallywag is still kicking. His mother is horse faced Martha. At least that's how Mother always referred to her. Alas, he is no stallion." He puts a finger on the paper, trailing it down. "These aren't the numbers I was expecting, Cousin. Kirkwall was becoming a legend of its own."

"What do you mean?"

"Only that there have been whispers for months now of the people gathering there."

She's irritated. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He lifts his eyebrows. "You didn't ask. We had demons falling out of the sky, rebel Grey Wardens… It seemed minor in comparison to what we were dealing with. On top of that…" he sighs, his eyes flicking away for an instant. "We haven't always gotten along. Our kind hasn't always gotten along."

"The Trevelyans and the Pavus'? I know our backwater nobility doesn't meet your Altus standard."

"Ah, you make jokes! Keep that up and others will want to spend time with you. In any case, you're not far off. We have the Black Divine as you know, and your people are knee deep in Andraste." She frowns at the wording. "But if I'm to be honest—I wasn't sure that I should tell you. Hawke told me about Adamant. You killed surrendering mages. You chopped off their hands."

"Did she forget to mention they attacked first?"

"She mentioned  _you_  attacked first."

She doesn't remember it that way. "They were Venatori."

"They were people. They could have been allies." A beat. "Are you even sorry?"

She's sorry to have gotten into this conversation with him. "Haven't we been hunting a hit list you provided of Venatori for months now? Why are they spared from this holier-than-thou riot act? Did they wear it better than you at some Tevinter party?"

"Ha! As if anyone wears anything better than me. Surely you understand my concern. You're no longer drinking lyrium. Things affect you. That's a good thing. You can be reasoned with now."

"Templars aren't mindless maniacs." He tries to look at the list but she pulls it away. She doesn't want him looking at it. She hates his words, fears that some part of her believes his implication.

"Is there something there you don't want me to see?"

"It's a list of names, Dorian. Nothing more."

"How many were put down in Kirkwall?"

"As many as threatened innocent lives and refused to surrender." She grounds her jaw. "We spared who we could."

"How magnanimous. Who died and made you Maker?"

"Why are you being like this? They're dangerous. I had to make a decision and I decided to spare the ones who weren't setting people on fire. If you were there, if you were reasonable, you'd have done the same bloody thing." There's an uncomfortable silence. "I'm not the enemy."

"Of course not. Inquisitions are agents of peace. Templars, the friend of the mage!"

"I could do without that tone."

"Then perhaps—" He stops, turning back to Leliana who approaches. Evelyn studies her garb. It is a curiosity. She looks like a chantry sister. She looks like an assassin. The flutter in her heart turns heavy at her approach. She still hasn't spoken to her about Gisele's conversation. It has to happen soon. Cassandra isn't back yet. Maybe then. "If it isn't Sister Nightingale! A beam of light on this dreary day."

Leliana laughs softly, wiping beads of rain from her hood. Evelyn thinks of that day in the cabin and her fingers tighten around the quill. "Is that what I am now? It's a different tune than you've sung before."

"Your little birds really are everywhere, aren't they? And I've survived the insult so perhaps you aren't as dangerous as others say."

"Oh, she is that," Evelyn says. Leliana smiles.

He smirks. "I'll try to be more diligent in the future and state my opinion plainly to your face. You'll forgive me. Tevinter nobility does enjoy its cattiness."

"Think nothing of it," Leliana takes a seat beside her. "I know a thing or two about being backhanded."

"You were raised in Orlais, weren't you? I'll take you at your word." He looks them over. "So, this is the happy couple." Heat crawls up Evelyn's face. "I'm glad you two got on with it. I couldn't bear her moping any longer," he tells Leliana.

Leliana pinches her cheek. "She's cute when she mopes." Evelyn makes a face, pulling away despite her happiness at Leliana not refuting the claim.

Dorian considers. "I can only hope you aren't one of those insufferable pairs. 'I love you', 'No, I love you more!'"

"We don't do that," Evelyn says quickly. They haven't made any such confessions. She can't imagine a life where those sorts of exchanges figure.

"Only in private," Leliana says. Dorian grins and Evelyn touches a hand to her burning face. "She's so serious!" She locks eyes with Evelyn. "It's fun to tease a woman like that." She glides a gloved hand beneath her chin and Evelyn wishes it was just the two of them. Leliana separates from her. "But I'm more interested in the talk you were having. Are you giving our Inquisitor a hard time?"

"I'm asking simple questions."

"You're making accusations," Evelyn hears the fire in her voice. Leliana grazes a hand along the small of her back and she swallows, trying to bury her anger. She was never this angry with lyrium. She was calm. She was logical. Unemotional. "You mages are never satisfied."

" 'Us mages'! Did you ever think 'you templars' aren't doing enough?" he asks. She glowers, her vision becoming blurs of color. "We may be family, you may be Inquisitor, but it doesn't mean that I won't question you. I'm trying to understand. I want this world to be a better place. I won't be the token mage you can point to to excuse your decisions."

"I have never used you in that way. Not ever."

"Embarrassed to mention me?" He grimaces. "I…" He sighs. "The mages from Kirkwall have been talking about what they saw there. Maybe the rest of the Inquisition won't bat an eye to it. The templars certainly won't. But it  _is_  disturbing. I'm a mage, Cousin. It weighs on me."

"They went into the Keep with the intention of killing the city-guard, the Viscount, its citizens. They weren't the only ones. There were templars, gone mad without their lyrium. None of them survived the encounter. I brought the mages here because I was worried—" The frustration and hurt makes her voice shake. Leliana touches her shoulder. "I'm trying to do the right thing. Please—try to trust me."

"We do trust you, Inquisitor," Leliana says. She looks to Dorian. "You'll have questions, yes? Questions are good. Sometimes we need people to answer to. Especially if those people are important to us. It keeps us honest. Evelyn's made mistakes. Who hasn't? But she has a history of standing up for mages. It got her thrown out of the Ostwick Circle. She had a terrible thing happen in Crestwood and there was a bad stretch. She's trying to make amends but she needs our trust and mages need templar allies. We all need each other. So it's best to work together, isn't it? Instead of fighting amongst ourselves."

Evelyn stares at the table. Leliana shouldn't have to speak for her. Dorian chuckles. "I believe we just got scolded, Cousin. I'm sorry for doubting you. Maybe this is a sign that we need to spend more time together. But how can I compete with Nightingale's eyes?"

"You have your charms. Though how effective they are on my Night Wraith, I can't say," Leliana says. Dorian barks a laugh, practically preening. "But I do have some business with the Inquisitor. I'd like her for myself, if you don't mind."

"Very well. I could use a break from all this heavy conversation and a return to a modicum of frivolity. You will return her to me in finer spirits than I've found her, won't you? She's been in a poor mood, even for her." He looks at Evelyn. "I would have thought you'd be happy to return to Skyhold and your two favorite people."

Leliana looks at her, taken aback. Evelyn has attempted to be lighthearted around her. She hasn't lied but not mentioning the matter of the Divines has felt like a lie. An exhausting one. "I'm quite happy," she says soberly. He rolls his eyes, turning to go away. She stands. "Dorian." He looks back at her. "Let's not part like this."

"Anger is a poison. And I like my poison aged and bottled, preferably dry. Find me later, Cousin. When you've tired of your 'Inquisition business'." He winks and strolls off.

Leliana waits until he's gone. "You have been distant since you've returned," she says. "I was beginning to wonder whether you'd missed me at all." It takes Evelyn a moment to realize she's teasing. Leliana touches her face, kisses her, studies her. "What's on your mind?" Evelyn shakes her head. "You need time?" Evelyn nods. "Then you'll have it. Don't take it to heart with Dorian. He loves you. But we all have doubts we can't shake, no matter how we try. It's hard when we lose our people and others make excuses. When you bring effective change to our mage and templar relationships, he'll have an easier time trusting."

"Nothing I do ever seems to be enough."

"We have more work to do. We'll get there in time."

Evelyn nods. She looks her over, frowning at a spot of black, bringing her fingers to the chainmail. Her finger comes back red. She looks into Leliana's face, feels the smooth leather of her glove as Leliana wipes the blood from her hand. Evelyn has shared the list they had of the Venatori mages. They weren't brought through Skyhold's gates but diverted elsewhere. The Venatori numbers were smaller than the Circle mages but they wielded the greatest influence. "I said our agents should handle this. Our agents."

"Most of our agents are out on the field. And others… I'd rather not let this touch them. Not if it doesn't have to." There's something distant and strained to her eyes. "Say what you will about the Venatori, but they are resilient."

Evelyn takes her hands. "Find someone else to do it."

"Why?" Evelyn is quiet. "Are we debating this again? I am the spymaster. This is my duty. I can't ask my agents to do something I'm unwilling to do myself. And none of them are as good at it as I am." She dips her face to meet Evelyn's eyes. "You're trying to help me and I'm grateful. But I don't need protection."

"Then let me be there with you."

"No. Your hands must be clean of it." She looks at Evelyn's hands, seemingly pleased that there's nothing on them. She brings them to her lips, kissing her palms. "I admit I am looking forward to being finished with the business."

Once again she worries how the work must wear on her. "Let me do it."

Leliana laughs before tsking. "My Night Wraith, getting information out of our enemies. No. You don't have the stomach for the work."

That's probably true. There were eleven Venatori that were recovered. "Have you learned anything?"

"I've only spoken to two of them. One was able to say what we suspected all along. They were sent there to recruit those mages feeling oppressed and neglected after the events in Kirkwall. Unfortunately but predictably, the Venatori are using your title as a recruiting tool. The Herald of Andraste, the leader of the Inquisition, a templar, a tool of the false divine who never cared for them. That you allied with the templars and not the mages only fueled their argument. If only those fools had known what Justinia was willing to do for them. She wanted freedom, equality. They called her radical because she wanted others to have rights, to be treated as the privileged are. I just can't believe how close minded and hateful people can be."

"The Inquisition has never been a tool of peace."

"It has been a tool of transformation. Though inquisitions can be violent they're for the greater good. They bring peace."

"It just doesn't make sense."

"We will set aside our weapons when our battle is won." Evelyn scoffs. Leliana allows a beat. "You  _are_ in a bad mood."

"I've been thinking."

"That tends to do it."

"How are those Venatori that you've spoken to?" Leliana's eyes cloud. Evelyn sighs. Leliana shifts, placing her hands on her thighs. Evelyn looks at her. "Maybe I didn't think this through. I said in a room full of people that the surrendering mages would be spared. If the Inquisition disposes of them—and if the other Circle mages find out—won't it breed hostility? Dorian doubts me. If Dorian doubts me than why would those mages we brought here trust us?"

"The Venatori exploited those mages' desperation. What you did in Kirkwall was a kindness. You gave them their lives. They'll understand."

"They  _won't_. What will we do with the Venatori? If they were actively attacking us—"

"What would you have me do? Shall I release them into Skyhold? Should I release them into Thedas? Or shall I deliver them to the Maker before they aim to send you to His side?" she doesn't have any easy answers. "Evelyn. I've said it before but it bears repeating. War is ugly. And sometimes there are people who cannot be saved. Who have no interest in changing for the better. Who believe in their cause so fundamentally that they can't be reasoned with. If I regret anything about our involvement, it's how entrenched you've become in all of this. I wish I could have kept you innocent."

"I'm not innocent. And I don't regret any of it." She can't imagine what it has been to bear this on her own. "But I want you to give me some time to think this over. You've spoken to two of the Venatori. Leave the others be until I can wrap my head around this."

Leliana looks at her. It isn't disappointment that Evelyn sees but something similar, maybe regret. She nods. "We can't wait too long. But I'll give you what time I can. In other matters—Solas spoke to me about the Anchor. It was agitated in Kirkwall? Was it different than before?"

"Solas mentioned the Veil is thin there. Maybe that's all there was to it."Even if her hand and arm have felt differently for weeks now, a flare of pain perpetually pulsing within.

"He seems to have some ability to temper it. I would have you keep him close." Evelyn shakes her head. "Don't be stubborn."

"I can control it."

"It did not sound to me like you could." Leliana senses her frustration and scoots closer. "In the meantime, if Dorian isn't taking up too much of your time, I was thinking we could spend some time together, away from prying eyes. We could have dinner. Perhaps share a bath?"

"Dorian who?"

She smiles. "Don't neglect him. But don't neglect me, either." She leans forward, "come here, my dear Inquisitor."

* * *

They exit the templar tower and do not see her. Josephine does not know whether they think they are hidden or are too wrapped up in their own world to notice. It has been raining steadily for the last few days and not many dwell outside. She watches them. She can't help but watch them.

It is as if she is possessed. It is the manifestation of her wildest paranoia. She knew it. She thought it. She saw it in her mind's eye and here it is before her. The Inquisitor and the Spymaster, having some conversation—Josephine cannot imagine what they have to talk about. Their fingers touch before Evelyn tugs her close, getting a laugh out of Leliana before kissing her. It is so easily done, so naturally, that it hits her like a mortal wound.

Fire trails over her body, then cold, a thick paralysis before the shaking. They separate, Leliana pressing another brief kiss to Evelyn's cheek before moving on. Josephine stares, stupefied. She's still staring when Evelyn's gaze falls to her. She looks stunned, as if she were the one betrayed. Evelyn is uncertain and then she takes a step towards her.

Josephine turns on her heel and walks briskly to her study. Her sanctuary. She falls back against the door and weeps. Amidst the madness they seem happy. They are on display as if the world belonged to them, to the Void what anyone thinks. Is she so defective that she was not capable of giving Evelyn that? Is she not worthy of having it?

There's a knock on the door. She clamps a hand over her mouth. Evelyn calls out. The concern in her voice makes her feel small. Was that the point of her encouragement? Was she telling her to move on? She knew this. Why does it hurt? It's been so long now. They've been apart longer than they were together. Some part of her must have been hopeful for a reconciliation. How had she not known that until now? How, when her heart can stir for Blackwall? When she is engaged? Perhaps she is a terrible person. Perhaps there is no perhaps about it.

The headlong rush towards oblivion Evelyn felt—was it because of her? She closes her eyes, ignoring the knock, saying nothing until eventually the footsteps move away. Minutes pass. She composes herself, wiping the tears from her eyes, her cheeks, taking deep breaths. She moves to her desk, settling the letter she intended to deliver to the Inquisitor off to the side. The envelope is ruined, the paper crinkled.

She takes out a fresh sheet of paper and copies over every word. Her calligraphy is a work of art and she strives to make it cleaner, more elegant. It has never seemed so important to ensure everything is flawless. The information is the same. She cannot give Evelyn the letter she has ruined. She sniffles, studies the paper, inspecting her fingers for ink. She sets the letter aside for the ink to dry and retrieves another sheet of paper.

She stares at it for ages and tells herself to write. She doesn't. She watches the rain tap against the window, the sky shift from grey to black. She lights a candle.

_Dearest Mother and Father,_

She has a headache. The door to the study opens. She hopes it will be… She doesn't know. She hopes it won't be Evelyn. She hopes it will be. She hopes it won't be Blackwall and hopes the same. She is all contrasts. Leliana appears. The last person she wanted. There is a difference to her, the smallest, and nearly indiscernible of differences. A light in her eyes she hasn't seen in years. Once again she wonders if she was not worth the investment.

"Josephine." Leliana comes closer. There is a hint of amusement in her voice. Is she laughing at her? "Why are you sitting alone in the dark?" Josephine looks up at her but can't think of a response that isn't an angry accusation, that isn't pitiful. She stops. "You've been crying. Are you all right?" Josephine wonders if they were ever friends at all. She barely remembers what that felt like. "Is it your family?"

She gives a stiff shake of her head and takes an unsteady breath, picking up the letter she wrote earlier. She folds it in half. "I would greatly appreciate it if you could deliver this to the Inquisitor. It is a report from Kirkwall on the lyrium gathering. We have secured the necessary parties to deliver it to us."

Leliana unfolds the letter and looks it over. "You wrote this." Josephine stands and straightens her dress, her hands unnaturally flat against the material. Leliana looks at the ruined envelope. She bows her head in consideration.

"Tell me one thing," Josephine says, though she has no wish to know. "Did it begin before Halamshiral? Or did you wait until I was sent to Kirkwall?" Leliana merely shifts her stance, her chin lifting slightly, perhaps in defiance. "You are my best friend. You are like a sister to me." Her eyes burn again. She blinks them quickly, desperate to hold it together. She is torn between shouting and whispering. "And when I asked you about it, about the favor you had won, you made me feel as if it were only paranoia. Have you nothing to say?"

She holds the letter delicately in her hands. They don't shake. She is composed. Is it her merciless duty that makes her that way or something dark and inherent to her nature? "Nothing kind. It was never my intention to hurt you, Josie. Let's discuss this later. When it's less raw."

She walks away from her. Like the others. Josephine takes her arm. Leliana looks from it to her but stops. Josephine knows how easy it would be for Leliana to untangle herself. She knows when she's being indulged. "You have nothing kind to say to me? Then say it to my face, Leliana. I feared this. On that balcony in Halamshiral I knew she was slipping away—but after all the things you said about her, the way you warned me… And then you swooped in once you'd broken us." If not for Leliana, might Evelyn have reconsidered? Might they have mended things?

"I broke nothing." That same placidity. "Let this go."

"You have no idea how you've hurt me," she blurts out.

The words give her pause. Leliana pulls her arm away. "We didn't plan it. She was struggling, as you know. I was a colleague. A confidante." Evelyn trusts the spymaster. It seems absurd. Leliana stops, as if knowing how cliché the words sound, the rehearsed lines of the unfaithful. "She was hurt by what happened between you."

"Then you blame me. Is that how it started? She complained and you comforted her?"

"She has never spoken ill of you. Not where your relationship was concerned. You're engaged. And you did with that man the things engaged couples do. I won't fault you for that. But you are not innocent in this. You had a choice, Josephine. You could have had your reputation or you could have had the Inquisitor. Instead of celebrating your love, you hid it. You were ashamed of it. You cared more about how others would receive it instead of what you had. You weighed status. I won't make the same mistake. I know this hurts you but your hurt does not absolve you of your decisions or the pain you caused. I can't steal what you've discarded. I won't expect you to be happy for me but I won't apologize for what I have." It seems as if there is something more she wishes to say. Josephine sees a flicker of humanity, hurt in her eyes and then it's masked and she pulls her arm free. "I'll deliver this to the Inquisitor."

Leliana leaves her alone and Josephine returns to her plush chair. She sits turns her attention to the letter she'd previously begun.

_Dearest Mother and Father,_

The candle has melted significantly, leaving a pool of wax on the silver plate. The flame grows dim.

She starts a fresh letter.

_Dear Adorno,_

She sits until the flame is swallowed by wax and she's left in darkness.

* * *

"I have heard your men screaming in the night," Morrigan tells her.

Leliana takes down the latest she has on the Venatori, the last words gasped with a dying breath. She looks to Morrigan. She has slinked her way into the rookery and rests against a wall. Younger though she may be, she's barely aged in over ten years. Perhaps the title 'witch' is more than a moniker. Perhaps, like Flemeth, she drapes herself in the flesh of the young. "I thought you'd be well acquainted with the sound," Leliana blows gently on the wet ink. Josephine was enough to contend with. Now she must also deal with Morrigan. "You haven't come here for idle chat. So talk."

"Skipping straight to business. You continue to surprise me, Bard." Yet she retains that title for her. "If only you'd been so taciturn when we journeyed together."

"You would have liked me then?" she laughs harshly. "You don't much like anyone, least of all yourself. Something we share in common."

"You're trying to wound me. I do still get under your skin."

"Don't delude yourself, Morrigan. You're not worth the effort."

Morrigan saunters closer, casting a disdainful look over her worktable. "I'd heard rumors of your involvement with the Inquisitor. I thought nothing of it until I spied you together with my own two eyes."

"And now you've come with some opinion you must share." She did the same with the Warden, warning her of their involvement. Bitch. Leliana plants her hand on the table, as if to steady herself. Some part of her is bracing for the insult. She does still get under her skin. "Go on, then."

Morrigan crosses her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You must know those Venatori have little to offer. Their brains are addled by red lyrium."

"Not all. What does it have to do with the Inquisitor? I decide what's relevant."

"I say you kill them and put an end to their suffering. And your own. What you can glean will be miniscule and the emotional toll… well. It's evident what this work has done to you."

She laughs. "And I was said to be the romantic between us. This is the second time you've ventured up here to talk of days gone past. You're a beautiful woman, but the time when something might have transpired between us is long gone." Now Morrigan is the innocent.

"Yes, I've come here hoping to be bedded."

"You could stand to loosen up."

Morrigan glares. "I haven't forgotten what you are: a pretender." Leliana makes no reaction. "Feigning innocence and pushing your Chantry beliefs onto anyone who crossed your path. But that woman, Marjolaine. She knew what you are. So did the Warden. And thanks to the Crucible, so do I." Leliana dips her chin, for a moment, incapable of breathing. That shameful time. "But for your many, many faults you appeared to me sincere. In some ways." Did she? Was she? "Fight as we did about the Chantry's teachings, you were always open to the idea of change and saw no need for the pointless adherence of tradition."

"You  _would_  favor the opinions that made me an outcast."

"As if you could ever deign to satisfy yourself with merely fitting in." She stops at the table. "My point is this. You find yourself in a position to wield considerable influence—should you take it." She's the spymaster of the Inquisition. Second to the Inquisitor, she is the most powerful in Thedas. What power is she meant to take? "I would not see it squandered following meaningless tradition. On false nobility. Sometimes we must tear everything down and start again. If you do hold compassion for mages as you insist, why allow a templar Inquisitor to lead you astray?"

"Is that what you think?"

"Then you admit that you control her?"

Leliana's jaw is tight. "Believe it or not, Morrigan, what's between the Inquisitor and I is a relationship of equals. I no longer pretend I am innocent—but I have no ulterior motives other than to build this Inquisition and see to it that she survives. That is all." Morrigan stares at her. "What?" she snaps.

"The matter with the Warden still haunts you."

"Many things haunt me. Her death is not amongst them. My conscience is clean." She cannot often say so.

"Did she ever tell you the nature of our conversation the night before we faced the archdemon?" No. She would not. "I wonder if you would loathe me as you do, if she had told you."

"And now you become the storyteller." Someone must, she supposes. "Whatever you have to say, I doubt it will sway my opinion."

"Perhaps you have no wish to hear it. Why torture yourself with no sympathy to gain for benefit?"

The words land. Yes. She has been guilty of that in the past. "Is it your intention to be cruel? You haven't changed."

"I think of her still."

She thinks of her less and it makes her guilty. "I'm not surprised you would betray her confidence. I begged her to tell me what happened." There were times that she thought the worst. That something happened between them and the Warden was too sorry to tell her the night before the grand battle. They had always been close and Leliana resented Morrigan. That the Warden could be drawn to a woman so unlike her. Who laughed at her. Who mocked everything she believed in. A woman so free.

So many small hauntings, depleting her throughout the years. Leliana looks at her. Eyes like gold, splendor from nothing. "But I suppose it's been long enough. So go ahead and tell me." Leliana sees a moment of hesitation. Is it habit after all this time, to seize on weakness and go for the jugular? "What's the matter? Afraid that once you share the one thing the Warden kept from me you'll lose all relevance?" Any power that she has over her?

"My friendship with the Warden was no bargaining chip," the anger melts the frost in her eyes. Then that glimpse that Leliana has found most beguiling about her throughout the years appears: a strip of innocence amidst the ferocity, a woman so knowing, suddenly lost. "If you must know…" a beat. The corrosive edge to her voice slipping again. "Mother had me befriend the wardens. You never trusted me and perhaps you had good reason. Certainly it was never my intention to actually… None of it happened the way I intended. I'd had little experiences with others. Mostly my mother for company and the Chasind men who crossed our paths. I was raised in a certain way. I was taught to use my beauty and my charms."

"Charms? I didn't think you had any mastery over that magic."

Morrigan ignores her. "It was mostly the animals that kept me company. But even when I took their shape I was an outsider. They knew I was not the same." How lonely. At least she had books and lady Cecilie. Does Morrigan see something in her face? Compassion? Morrigan was always contemptuous of such things. She collects herself, wrapping herself in armor. "In any case, Flemeth gave me a task. Not only was I to befriend the wardens, I was to have one impregnate me. As our warden lacked what was necessary, I had to divert my attentions to stupid Alistair."

"What are you saying? You and Alistair?" A beat. "Why a warden?"

"When an Archdemon is felled, the soul of the Old God leaps into another vessel in order to survive. The Grey Wardens are different. Their body is tainted by Blight. This ensures that an Archdemon is truly defeated. As you now know, the grey warden loses their life when that happens."

"I know all of this." Why torment her with those memories?

"Not all. There is a ritual. Through it, the Warden might have survived. I offered it to her and she rejected it. I reminded her of what she would leave behind – who— but she was stubborn."

"I don't understand. You knew all of this? She could have been saved?"

"The warden who took the killing blow would die. She was aware. She made her decision. I told her I would leave if she did not agree to the ritual. She did not agree and I—I was angry. Not because of how Flemeth would react to my failure. It was a waste. She was throwing her life away and I— I left. But I watched from afar, Bard. And I grieved and I sorrowed in a way I knew not was possible. Perhaps as strongly as you."

Leliana wants to argue. For Morrigan to think that she could grieve as strongly, more so—how insulting. Justinia would judge her for the thoughts. She would remind her of her arrogance. She can't make sense of things. She can hardly breathe. "She left me?"

"Perhaps your good influence." Perhaps the darkness she saw in her instead. "No doubt you would not have approved of this ritual."

She would have condoned anything that would have saved her. Anything. She would have sacrificed Alistair. She would have sacrificed whoever was needed. Anger rolls through her, followed by a dizzying wave of heartache, so strong she nearly chokes on it. She sets the quill down.

"Perhaps it was cruel to tell you," Morrigan says.

"Perhaps it's for the best," she says flatly, looking in her direction but unable to see anything really, except for the face of her young warden, dead so long now. "Can you imagine it…? You. A mother."

She turns her attention away, a letter there where there wasn't before. Perhaps she missed it. Has she been distracted…? The handwriting is like that of Justinia. Her memories are a graveyard. There are ghosts all around her.

* * *

Cassandra joins them in the war room. They look at her as if she were some phantom they'd forgotten still lingered. All appear weary. They have been here longer than any expected. It is taking its toll. Only the witch Morrigan looks at ease, if not irritated, but Cassandra suspects her face looks that way naturally.

"Our Seeker returns," The Inquisitor smiles tiredly, despite the warmth in her words. The others cast out greetings but they seem distracted. Cullen arrived several days prior. Cassandra wonders whether he will look better, happier, the longer he is away from Kirkwall. "How was the coronation?"

"It was fine." She doesn't wish to talk about it, worried that her voice will lock in some way.

They spend the rest of the meeting discussing the travel routes for the lyrium to Kirkwall, how the city-state will be run, how long they expect their templars to remain. Leliana offers what information she has on the captured Venatori but her eyes are far away. Josephine ebbs between a frightening calm and bright flashes of anger that disappear as quickly as they surface.

"Did Hawke pass along any correspondence?" Evelyn asks.

"Yes." She has not read it yet. "But I do not have it on me."

Leliana grins. "A love letter, is it?"

"Let's hope not," Cullen says. "We bid her information, not…" he sighs.

"I'm confident she'll send us the necessary reports," the Inquisitor says. "Whatever she leaves out, we'll have through our spymaster's network and our ambassador's noble ties."

Leliana and Josephine shift. The Inquisitor looks only at her. There's tension in the room and Cassandra can't identify why.

"The nobility of Kirkwall is lackluster," Josephine says, "but to be sure, some information is better than none."

"This might have been avoided if we'd picked someone else," Cullen says.

"Who?" Leliana asks. "Kirkwall had become a haven for fanatics. Imposing a new leader with no understanding of the situation would make things worse. Look at what happened with Bran and previously with Marlowe. At least Hawke knows the city, its struggles. No other can take that role."

"We have our templars there," Cassandra says. "If they are enough to fight for the Inquisition, they should be more than enough for a small city-state. If we had simply reinstated the Circle we could have stationed less of our men there."

Leliana's eyes are sharp. "Or it could have been a repeat of everything that happened before. Particularly with no oversight."

"And the oversight of Marian Hawke is enough to suffice?" Cullen scoffs. "I have received her first report. A handful of sentences that reveal nothing. Let's hope she's more forthcoming in the letters she writes the others."

"She doesn't trust you. It's understandable, no?"

"Whatever resentments she holds, she is a member of the Inquisition now and must put those misgivings aside. If we are giving her our men that is the least she owes us."

"Trust is earned. She will not simply give it to us because we demand it." Leliana glances at Cassandra. "No doubt the worthy information we seek will be freely given to Cassandra. We can get it from her." Cassandra wishes to argue but knows how petulant Hawke can be. "Our alternative is to withdraw our forces from there. Hawke is Viscountess. Let her handle it."

"No," Cullen shakes his head. "To do so would be to allow Corypheus a foothold. The situation there is dire, the apostates dangerous."

"Still jumping at shadows, templar?" Morrigan asks. "T'is a shame how the demons of the past hold on to you so."

"No one asked for your opinion," he tells her.

"No," she says, "better to squawk out the same arguments with no dissenting voices. What could possibly go wrong?"

"I wasn't aware you two knew each other," Evelyn says.

Morrigan looks at her. "Our Nightingale keeps her songs to herself these days, I see. Even from those close to her."

The Inquisitor and Leliana exchange brief glances. Something else Cassandra cannot read. Leliana gives a small shake of her head. "It was long ago," she explains, "when we traveled with the Warden."

"We met in the Fereldan Circle," Cullen says and nothing more.

"So long as we're civil," Evelyn says, "I don't care where anyone met. But I'm inclined to side with our Commander. Our men and women are needed in Kirkwall to keep the people safe. The abuse the mages of the Circle were subjected to there led to the Circle rebellions. We should take steps to see that history is not repeated."

"Have you forgotten how many there practiced blood magic?" Cullen asks. "Practice it still?"

"I haven't forgotten," Evelyn snaps. "But we cannot feed fear with fear."

Morrigan shifts her stance. "Then you'd best be mindful word not get out about your remaining Venatori."

"You worry about nothing," Leliana says.

Josephine rouses, somewhat alarmed. "What is happening with the Venatori?"

"We could have just left our templars there," Cassandra insists, "allow them to monitor the situation, ensuring the citizens are safe and then return them here."

"So the menace can return as soon as the templars have gone?" Cullen asks. "As they did last time?"

"Perhaps the apostates are not the only menace," Morrigan suggests.

Another silence follows. Cassandra sees Cullen's anger, channels some of it. "Our templars," Cassandra repeats slowly, "are not the templars of Kirkwall."

Morrigan tsks. "Don't we have one in this very room?"

"That is no longer his position."

"Yet he leads them all," Morrigan says. "If the templars are frightened, if the man who leads them has been, they will overreach to ensure the 'safety' of others. Throughout my years I have seen the little ones that templars have 'safeguarded'. In pieces. If the templars are so scared they should seek to serve Thedas in other ways."

"How dare you question the honor—" Cullen starts.

"That is enough," the Inquisitor lifts a hand to quiet them. "I will not have our Commander questioned and disparaged. That said, Kirkwall has been offered the protection of the Inquisition and they will get it. The templars will remain until I say otherwise. We'll continue to gather intelligence from all of our sources."

"I don't see the need," Cullen says, "waiting to get information from The Champion and whomever else. I say we have the Knight-Captain send reports to us and leave it at that. Too many sources will only muddy the water."

"Commander, I appreciate your opinion, but this point is not up for discussion. We can speak of it later if you'd like, but not here." They stare heatedly at one another before both look away. Cassandra isn't sure what's happened. She spent a few weeks in Kirkwall and she's returned to new tensions, new policies. "This meeting is adjourned." She touches the table. Cullen leaves first, followed closely by Josephine and Morrigan who only lingers enough to glance in Leliana's direction.

Cassandra prepares for her exit but the Inquisitor delays her. "You two, remain."

Cassandra crosses her arms. "Am I to get the same scolding Cullen just received? You were unfair." The words have hurt her but Cassandra holds to them. Perhaps she is only resentful. It is her fault. She has become emotionally attached where she should not.

"I'm sorry if you feel I was unfair." She seems to want to say more but she guards her silence.

Whatever foul mood Leliana was in seems to have slipped away. Her eyes are mischievous. "You've kept your two favorite women behind, Inquisitor." Cassandra looks at her. "I hope you haven't gotten any ideas into your head."

"I hope you are not implying what I think you are," Cassandra tells Leliana. She certainly goes out of her way to tease her.

Leliana laughs. "Why? Are you interested?"

"Flirt later, Spymaster," the Inquisitor says. She touches her palms to the war table. It is clear she is troubled. "I have news." Her eyes drift along the map, settling on Orlais before lifting again. "I was approached by Mother Gisele upon returning to Skyhold. I don't know how to say this, so I'll say it plainly. The grand clerics have narrowed down their candidates for the Grand Divine. And it appears that they've narrowed it down to the two of you." She forces a pained smile. "Congratulations." A beat. "They have asked that I send you to the White Spire immediately to be vetted."

Cassandra flushes, feeling her hands going sweaty. "So now they want us to return? Unbelievable."

"It's totally believable. They call us heretics," Leliana says. "And now they want us to return to lead them." She scoffs. "I wish I could say I'm surprised."

"Neither one of you appears to be taking this seriously," Evelyn says.

Cassandra can't tell if the Inquisitor is irritated or relieved. "Perhaps we are meant to be flattered. It is not entirely surprising. With all those who perished at the Conclave, Leliana and I are among the highest ranking members of the Chantry. The Left Hand the Right. We are held in high esteem."

"Some of us higher than others," Leliana says with a wink to Cassandra.

"I don't know if it needs stating," the Inquisitor continues, "but until we have resolved the matter with Corypheus, I would like for both of you to remain here." She doesn't quite look at them. "I'm sorry. I just—I don't know how to replace either one of you. Of course, I cannot keep you here against your will. If it is your intention to depart to the White Spire, please tell me now."

Cassandra shakes her head. "No. My place is with the Inquisition. Do they expect us to be at their beck and call?" she looks to Leliana who smirks gently. "We have graver matters at stake. As usual, all they care about are their politics."

The Inquisitor nods gratefully and turns her attention to Leliana. "They can begin their vetting process without us," Leliana tells her. "Training a replacement at this point would be impossible. Especially at this stage in the game. I'll remain at your side, Inquisitor."

"It's only temporary," the Inquisitor tells them. "After we're finished… or… perhaps they can find some other means to make their determination. In any case, I can think of no finer candidates." She looks uncertainly between the two of them. "Congratulations. Good luck. And thank you both." She nods, unable to meet their eyes for long before exiting.

Cassandra watches her go and takes a breath. "They must be desperate," she tells Leliana. "The Inquisitor seems troubled."

"You're a dear friend and I her lover. No doubt it weighs on her mind."

"You are— Is this another joke?"

"No."

That explains the tension earlier. "Then you care about her?"

"Would it surprise you?"

Leliana lectured her in this very room, insisting that Josephine's relationship with the Inquisitor was making her soft. That it was making it impossible to do the job to the full of her ability. Cassandra stood up for Josephine. Leliana ridiculed her. Does she believe herself different? Has she simply changed her mind? "I'm not sure why you told me."

"It may not be well known but it is no secret. Some may think to raise the issue given the circumstances."

Yes. That would make sense. The Inquisitor holds considerable influence. No doubt she will play some part in the decision. "She hadn't told you?"

"No. She seemed distant to me the past days. It makes sense now."

"I'm surprised you were not aware of the situation."

"I could expend all my agents to the White Spire. So many of the clerics have secret motives we'd never have a pulse of the situation unless we were physically there." She sighs, as if the matter tires her.

Cassandra frowns. "I doubt it will matter. For all we know this was some ploy by the Chantry to weaken the Inquisition."

"It could be. So," she perks, "Cassandra the Divine. Or whatever awful name they draw out of a hat."

"I cannot imagine it. They are desperate." She looks at her. "And you. What do you make of it? You've always had the difficult work. You may at long last be rewarded."

"I never did my work for the reward." She smiles, weary. "And I don't know that I could survive any vetting process. It would be great to affect change. Real change. The Chantry is in desperate need of it. But I know what they think, as you have thought it, Cassandra. That I am a radical. More radical than Justinia, whom they despised. I do not have the moral purity and traditional values they would seek."

Cassandra can think of no way to argue the words. "These are dangerous times. The Chantry's traditions should not be forgotten. But there is room for improvement. Perhaps they are finally realizing that things cannot continue as they have."

"Do you think I'd make a good Divine?"

"I think we have different ideas on what the Chantry should be. Maker willing, He will choose the one He sees fit to lead."

Leliana allows another smile, genuine and sorrowful in one. "I'm not sure what the Maker has to do with it."

* * *

"So this is where you hide yourself away." Evelyn studies the room. It's frighteningly modest, barely larger than a closet. There is a bed on a thin steel frame. A thin mattress sits on it, covered by a white sheet. A candle burns atop the small bureau there. Leliana kneels at the side of the bed, hands laced. There is a small relief set into the wall. A stone statue of Andraste rests in it, no bigger than the palm of her hand. "I'm sorry I didn't knock. I was half expecting to find an empty room."

"Were you afraid you'd receive silence?"

Silence has frightened her on more than one occasion but she can't be sure what she was frightened of this time. Leliana has parted ways from her in the mornings, somewhere in this vicinity. Opening this door, tucked away in the darkness, was a guess. "I thought you might be angry."

"You asked for time and I said I'd give it to you. Given our involvement, I can see why you'd want to wait until Cassandra returned. Some of Josephine's graces must have rubbed off on you after all."

Josephine. Evelyn finishes closing the door. There's so much they must talk about, she doesn't know where to start. "Were you praying?"

"I'm out of practice. All my prayers recently are to do with you. The clerics would judge me for that. My mind has been occupied." She rises slowly and faces her. "You were very diplomatic earlier, but surely, you have something more to say about this latest development."

Evelyn smiles anxiously. It's been on her mind yet she's tried not to give it any thought. "I haven't wrapped my head around it yet. I'm more interested in how you feel about it."

She laughs. "I'm not sure. For all my fantasy, I never imagined I'd ever be a candidate. Now I know why you've seemed so faraway. I'm no fool. I know that between us, your philosophy is more closely aligned to Cassandra's." Yes. "But I also see in you an openness to change things for the better, to not follow the pack. You did that in the Circle in Ostwick, and you did it again when you left the lyrium behind. Whatever you decide, you'll have my support. But," she says more lightly, "I'm sure that's nothing you want to speak of. So tell me, why did you sneak in here?"

She considers. "I wanted to see you. Outside of my quarters. Outside of our work spaces. Maybe you need a place that's your own. And if that's the reason then I'm sorry I've come uninvited. I should have had the conversation with you first."

"Maybe I like your fine accommodations. Maybe I find it hard to imagine you'd want to spend time here."

For all her disagreements with Josephine, this was not one of them. They grew up as nobles, accustomed to a lavish existence. It wasn't until Haven that she lived with anything less than excess. She hated it. She thought she had learned humility. It's clear she hasn't learned enough. "It's bare." Leliana waits, as if the explanation doesn't suffice. "You do so much for us. Why have you chosen this room? The servants have better quarters."

"And they do a great deal as well. I see you smile as if it were a jest, but I'm not joking."

"I don't care about the servants."

"You should."

She's irritated. "You know what I mean. You could have anything. I could give you anything."

She touches her face tenderly, as if she were a fool for believing such a thing. "That's sweet. But I need nothing." She takes a seat at the edge of the bed, the springs lightly creaking at her weight. "As a servant of the Maker, you're to want nothing but to serve in His name. The lay sisters' rooms were just as bare, and as spymaster, first to Divine Justinia and then to the Inquisition. Well… it seemed important." Evelyn sits beside her. The material of the bed sheet is rough. "It was a gesture. And now… if you were to ask me what I truly, deeply wanted… I'd have no answers. And to think that there was a time when I was obsessed with material things."

"I can't imagine it."

"You didn't know that woman."

"Will I ever know her? I'm not the only one who's had things on my mind. You've been preoccupied. I know you're guarded. I don't expect you to tell me everything. But you can talk to me." She forces the words out. "Is this about Josephine? She saw us together."

"I thought as much."

She'd expected more of a reaction. It explains the war room meeting. "Did you talk to her?"

"Briefly. I wonder if I was too hard on her. It's been a strange few days. My past keeps resurfacing and it feels like I'm losing things all over again."

"Such as?"

Her fingers tighten on the edge of the bed, her eyebrows dipping. "I don't know where to begin." Evelyn waits but all she hears for seconds is the flicker of the candle. "I need your help, Inquisitor. I've received a letter. It's from Justinia." Evelyn purses her lips, unsure of how to respond. "I know she's dead. But it's her writing, I'm certain of it. Maybe this is a trick… some impeccable forgery. Or maybe it's a sign from the Maker. Sometimes hope feels so much like foolishness. I wonder if I'm deluding myself into what I want to believe."

"You mentioned you needed help. What can I do?"

"If she did write this letter, someone must have sent it. For what purpose? They've directed me to a chantry in Valence. It's where I first met Justinia. Where she saved me. She was Mother Dorothea then." She looks sad and Evelyn is reduced to feeling useless. "I can't help but think it's a trap."

"Why go?"

"I must see it through. I keep losing those that matter to me. Never with a proper goodbye. Perhaps this will bring some closure." She looks at the statue of Andraste, giving a shake of her head. "I know you've got a great deal to attend to but I would be grateful if you joined me."

Valence in Orlais. Evelyn wonders if they shouldn't move their headquarters there. They seem to spend more time there than in Ferelden. "There are a few things here that we need to wrap up first." The Venatori. She has been racking her brain trying to find the right agent. Leliana nods. "But after that we'll go. Is it only Justinia and Josephine on your mind?"

Leliana rises to her feet. "If only. I've received word on two other matters. One of our agents has been captured in Orlais. And to add insult to injury, I believe we have a traitor in our midst. Our agents keep getting ambushed by Venatori. They must have flipped one of them."

"How?"

"The usual promises. Status. Coin. We select our agents carefully but not any of us is without our weaknesses."

"Even you?" Evelyn looks up at her. An appointment to Divine will mean losing her. She bites her tongue. "We'll save our agent. And we'll root out the traitor."

"What shall I do with them?"

"Let me handle that." She stands. Leliana cocks her head as if awaiting a challenge. "I'm worried about your work with the Inquisition. If there's some sort of vetting process happening at the White Spire, what you do for us could compromise it."

"My work is more important than jumping through hoops for the Chantry. They can pretend all they want. They know the work I did for Justinia. They were grateful so long as they benefited."

"I don't think you should attend to the matter of the Venatori anymore."

"We've already had this conversation. And I'm through having it. You may be Inquisitor but you will  _not_  dictate my role in this Inquisition. You think you have the  _right_? Because of our involvement? You don't."

"I am the Inquisitor and I decide—"

"No. You don't decide. Not when you would ask another to do it. You will not abuse your privilege in that way. You have to be better."

Evelyn looks away from her, her eyes wet, fingers trembling with anger, perhaps fear. Whispers of lyrium tease her. She buries the thought but it slinks in the back of her mind. "A candidate for Divine should have no hand in this kind of work."

She laughs, cold and mocking. "The clerics know who I am. I wonder, do you? If you really want to help, have Cullen and Ser Barris come see me. The mages from Kirkwall must be kept occupied while we dispose of our Venatori friends. You can keep an eye on them, yes?"

"An eye on them?"

"You may have fooled the others, but I know why you did not restore the Circle in Kirkwall. You know the templars can't be trusted left to their own devices, without a watchful eye. Maybe we shouldn't even have templars. The way they abuse their power is shameful."

"I can't believe you'd say that. Not all templars are bad."

"No, they're not. You're living proof of that. But you know as well as I that they could use oversight. Just because truths hurt doesn't make them any less true." She grimaces. "I had a talk with Morrigan several days ago. She said things that I never imagined." She considers. "Sometimes I wonder if everything that I love will be untrue."

Evelyn focuses on the dry scrape of her throat, the way the air she breathes is too harsh against it. She doesn't know how to reassure her without being presumptuous. "No matter your losses, the Maker will love you at your lowest. He will love you through anything. His love is constant."

"But He should love us all equally. And if my desires and need are opposite of another? How does He choose? How do I tell myself He still loves me? How can I tell the other, if He blesses me, that He still loves them?"

"That's what faith is for. There are no certainties. That's why it's faith."

"Ah, 'faith'. Do you know how often that word is used so we can sit on our hands? So we can excuse what's happened?"

"What's your point?"

"It seems like a game."

"It isn't." Leliana's shoulders slump. Evelyn can't tell if the words relieve or exhaust her. Evelyn crosses the short distance between them and circles her arms around her. A candidate for Divine should not have such thoughts. Or maybe she's looking for an excuse.

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: Years of writing copied over in a few days. Crazy. Ah. I should probably start on that new chapter sometime.


	32. Influence

A/N: Here we go. Now with little xxxs (not porn) to separate it better.

A/N 2: This chapter came in at 35 pages. I'm splitting it into 3 with this one being the first. 

* * *

xxx

_Dear Cassandra,_

_Once again, I am separated from the one I love. Some part of me is grateful. You may be aware that I have a reputation for being poison to those closest to me._

_It was never my intention to gain a position of political power, but as far as my partings go, this is the least messy. I think Varric would want this—the position, not the parting. I wish it could be him with the posh crown, that way I might have been able to stay at your side ‘for the Inquisitor.’ I know what the Inquisition has been asked of me. I will not give my reports to the man who_

The words are scribbled out.

_I will keep you appraised of the situation **and** I will be a dutiful apostate and send **something** to your golden fleeced commander. What I send you will be for you and you alone. Please try to trust me and I will do my best to trust _

Cassandra can’t tell if ink has been spilled intentionally or if it is the result of errant drops of ink, falling from the quill of a trembling hand.

_Maybe that’s why I’m afraid. It’s mad how our experiences keep us shackled, isn’t it? I thought only Fenris suffered from this. Your Seekers failed. The apostates of my fair city began the rebellions that have killed countless._

_Sod it. Let’s give it all up and move to Rivain. Or Nevarra. I can meet your three hundred cousins!_

_Write me and tell me how things are. Or write scandalous words, if you’d like. Just make sure to put extra seals on those._

_Yours,_

_Marian._

She’d expected more. Despite that, she’s read it many times. What was in Hawke’s head when she wrote it? Cassandra remembers her voice and wonders whether death will find her before they find one another again. Will she be another one gone too swiftly from her life?

She folds the letter and surveys the Skyhold grounds. They’ve expanded so much they no longer look like a struggling organization. Templars and soldiers train together, clashing swords. Shouts of battle ring throughout, carried on a cold breeze. The stench of perspiration permeates the air.

Evelyn walks in the distance, moving with some determination towards the templar tower. Cassandra rises from the ground, brushing the stray blades of grass away and trotting to catch up with her. The Inquisitor notices her approach and stalls, resentfully turning her gaze from the templar tower to her. The Inquisitor stands taller these days. Her gaze no longer retreats.

“Inquisitor. I thought you might spare me a moment.”

“ ‘Inquisitor’?” She crosses her arms gingerly. “That’s rather formal, ‘Seeker’. I’ve angered you.” Cassandra doesn’t know if Evelyn jokes but her silence may well be answer enough. She knows it’s petty to be upset. _Then stop being upset._ Evelyn continues. “Should I call you ‘Divine’?”

“Please don’t.”

“Perhaps I should begin the practice of kneeling at your feet.”    

“You have gotten rather good at that, I hear.” Evelyn cocks her head. Cassandra flushes. “I meant in practice. Andrastian practice.” Evelyn flashes an easy smile. “How are you?”

“You didn’t trot up here to ask me that.”

“Not entirely.” She shifts her weight, noticing how Evelyn’s fingers twitch. Her smile remains placid. “You arm—”

“Is fine. Next?”

So that is how the Inquisitor will play it. Cassandra briefly regrets leaving Kirkwall. They wanted Evelyn to be strong and it certainly appears she is that. But what has been traded? What has she buried and ignored for that strength? “We are friends. I hoped you would be honest.”

“We were friends. I’m not sure what we are anymore.” She looks around and back to her. “Colleagues, at least.” Cassandra frowns. It will take some time to mend things between them. “I’m sorry about Hawke. She joked that I was trying to keep you apart. I hope you know that isn’t the case.”

“Leliana told me about your involvement.” She says, not knowing what to do with her apology.

“I will expect you to provide whatever information Hawke doesn’t give our Commander.”

“It feels as if you are trying to have a different conversation with me than I’m trying to have with you.”

“That’s not how I see it. Don’t you trust the Champion? Or are you sorry to leave her?” She’s short. “This is war. Duty. We make our sacrifices. You’ve made them, Hawke’s made them, Leliana, everyone. Love takes a backseat to our responsibilities.”

“Do not squawk at me like a parrot.” These things she’s saying. How many are her beliefs and how many are Leliana’s? Was it Leliana or the Inquisition that warped her? Evelyn told her once that it was Josephine who kept her from fleeing in the night. Perhaps the Inquisitor is more malleable than she imagined. And why would she not be? Haven’t they told her what to do from the beginning? Haven’t they forced her when she hasn’t wanted to oblige? “I know what sacrifice is.” She knows better than most. “I do not know why you’re snapping at me.”

Evelyn takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Have you told the Champion you might be Divine?”

She hasn’t. It will never happen. Leliana may be heretical, but she is honey tongued. She is not so abrasive. She is capable of charming anyone. Cassandra has not allowed herself to dwell on it. To do so would be to abandon Hawke. Or maybe she has no wish to think of it because she told Hawke after the Inquisition they might be together and she doesn’t want to have lied to her. In any case she is not worthy to be Divine. “I am trying to settle back into Skyhold. I hear you and Leliana will be headed to Valence. I do not trust this letter. You should not go.”

“I’ve already agreed to go.”

“Then tell her you’ve changed your mind. This letter is a trap.”

“Leliana’s convinced that it’s genuine. And that Justinia’s left something the Inquisition could benefit from.”

“I doubt that.” What could Justinia have that would benefit the Inquisition? It was Justinia’s intention to declare it but… Try as she might, nothing comes to mind. She takes a breath. “The death of Divine Justinia was a tragedy. She saved you and for what it’s worth, she made the right decision. Without you this world would have fallen into chaos. But Justinia’s death never sat right with Leliana. I may have been the Right Hand but …” She was removed from them. “Justinia’s death changed her.” For over a year her faith has been dramatically shaken.

“I can’t say I know anything about it. But I do know that Leliana needs this.”

No. Of course she’s told her nothing. Leliana’s always been secretive. “And the Inquisition needs you both. Allow us to join you. I’ll tolerate Dorian and Sera; I know how you like them.”

“No.” A beat. “It’s private. Once it’s behind her she can focus. I’m more interested in the fate of our remaining Venatori,” she says more quietly. “It was a mistake to return them here.”

“Perhaps, but it is done now. Kill them and be done with it.” The Inquisitor’s jaw tightens. “They are Venatori. They have done enough to you and I do not trust them to ever follow your lead.”

“That may be but I gave them a promise—”

“It was a promise that should have never been made.”

“Two are already dead. My promises are a joke.”

There’s a long silence. “And you take that so lightly?”

“Of course not. But it is not our spymaster’s responsibility to keep handling these messes. _My_ messes.”

“That is exactly her responsibility. She would not have it any other way. Nor do the rules change because of your involvement.”

“Did she have you say that to me?”

“No,” Cassandra says exasperated, taken aback at how defensive she sounds. Leliana’s offhanded remark about their involvement is all she’s said to her. “I do not like her role either but it is what it is.”

“That’s what people say when they don’t want to change things. We can’t just have her keep doing this.”

“Can you think of another who could take her role? Do you think we should no longer have a spymaster?” Silence. “You know that we would not be in the position we are in without her diligence. No one has her experience. No one can replace her. She was chosen by Justinia for a reason.”

“It doesn’t make it right.”

“I won’t disagree with you. I wish we had no need of that kind of work. But you were the one who encouraged her. How often did you turn your nose up at Josephine’s diplomacy? You wanted things taken care of quickly. You wanted our enemies silenced and so they were.” Evelyn scowls. Cassandra does not like the conversation. It is better to bring it back to what frustrates her, the Venatori. “Regarding the Venatori—If it’s such a bother, why not consider the Rite of Tranquility?”

“That’s for mages who are susceptible to demonic possession.”

“Or refuse to control their magic. We have a Knight-Commander. Ser Barris would give the go-ahead.”

“We can’t use it because we disagree, because we don’t trust them.” But she sounds uncertain as she says so.

“It is also a ritual cast on the most dangerous of mages. They are dangerous.” Cassandra sighs. “I never thought I’d miss the days when you flirted outlandishly.”

The Inquisitor settles her hands on her hips, reflecting. She shakes her head. “I could take it up again if you’d like.”

“I doubt either of us would survive the attempt.” The Inquisitor smiles. “I wonder if you and I will ever see eye-to-eye on anything.”

“Who has the time? Every time I look up there’s another problem rearing its ugly head.”

Yes. It’s not only the Venatori. Leliana mentioned their missing agent, along with the traitor. Will they ever be able to squelch all the betrayal? “What do you think of this Divine business?” Her eyes are inscrutable. Perhaps she should not have brought it up.

“I think the Grand Clerics have selected strong candidates.” She looks down, digging the toe of her boot into the ground, as if trying to stomp out the question.

“Will you be making a recommendation?”

The question seems to startle her. “I don’t know.”

* * *

xxx

Josephine sorts through the letters, absently drinking wine. Her eyes flick to the wooden ship at the corner of her desk. A gift from Blackwall. It is painted in Antivan colors. The craftsmanship is exemplary. It is detailed, sturdy but light. She leaves it on her desk, brazen as it is to do so, because it makes it easier to breathe.

Blackwall presented it to her several nights ago, while she, defeated and melancholy, began her familiar trek to the wine cellar.

_I know you’ve been unhappy, m’lady. Perhaps you feel unappreciated but I can’t imagine anyone fool enough to take you for granted. You mentioned returning home to married life. I’ve passed through Antiva. Lovely waters. Lots of ships. I thought… maybe a memento. I know it’s selfish, but I’d rather have you here than there._

The gesture has meant everything. Odd what comes to mean everything when picking through ruins. Part of her wants to return to Antiva. Leliana, Evelyn and Blackwall, talk about that life as if she were only returning to a gilded cage but they have no understanding. Skyhold is a prison. Cold and uncivilized, she is alienated from everyone. All she gets are glimpses at others’ freedom. At least in Antiva she would have her family. Her status means something there. Here it amounts to nothing—save for her access to the collection of wine.

The letters to Adorno and her parents remain untouched. She turns her hand over, an itch on her palm where the Inquisitor left her mark. Josephine hates that scar. She will never be allowed to forget her.

She sets the letters aside and takes out a fresh piece of paper, easing her fingers along the silken letterhead. She picks up her quill, dipping it into the ink and bringing it to the paper.

_My Dearest Blackwall,_

She stares at the paper, rattled by the pumping of her heart. Perhaps she should be brazen. Perhaps she should write what she can never send. The door opens and she gets to her feet. The ink on the sheet is not yet dry. She reaches out and steadies the inkwell before it tips over. Vivienne strides closer, her Orlesian hat making her look like a dragon. Blackwall has called her a viper. She doesn’t disagree.

She brings a hand to the sheet in front of her but it’s too late. Vivienne’s laid eyes on it. Josephine turns it over and waits for the biting commentary. It doesn’t come. Vivienne takes her elbow, leaning over the desk and kissing both of her cheeks. “My dear Ambassador, it has been far too long since we’ve crossed paths, wouldn’t you agree?”

Josephine finds herself nodding. This is one of the oldest tricks in the books and she has fallen for it. Vivienne releases her and moves around the desk, hooking their arms together and moving them out of the study. Josephine forces herself to relax. One doesn’t become the Court Enchanter to Empress Celene without being a masterful player of the Game, especially an Ostwick mage with no status. Ostwick has a penchant for turning nothing into something.

“I take it you missed my company on the return journey from Kirkwall.” She jokes. She wishes it had been Vivienne and not the Inquisitor who’d kept her company. Evelyn’s eyes were far away, no doubt thinking of other things. Leliana.

“A dreadful place,” Vivienne demurs with a shake of her head. “I’m glad to have left it. Kirkwall is what happens when untested mages are allowed to run wantonly. It was a disgusting display of power. I’m happy the Inquisitor did what needed to be done.”

“Show mercy?”

“Extinguish the threat. I do believe there’s some hope for the dear girl.”

She is being baited and she won’t fall for it. “The Inquisitor has come a long way,” she says. They walk towards the gardens, the citizens of Skyhold watching them closely. Further off she sees Blackwall talking to a merchant. He glances in her direction, smiling before noticing Vivienne and looking away again. “You have both made significant strides.”

“Some are satisfied with strides while others won’t settle for anything less than flight.” They sit in the gazebo. The cooler weather is coloring the leaves and perhaps it is the gloom or the recent arrivals of the mages, but the gardens are far quieter than usual. “You are being wasted here.” Josephine’s eyebrows dip but she says nothing. “Surely you know it. And you must think it. Your esteem is dropping, my dear. A sad thing for such a magnetic woman.”

Josephine laughs softly. Magnetic? No. But she still holds influence. “I take it you have heard the news.”

“Mother Gisele told me herself. She’s lovely and devout but angry. To imagine that she might have been a contender.” Her laugh is carefree despite how she mocks her. “Some delusions of grandeur are just _sad_.”

“I have no doubt that you harbor some preference.” A beat. “And as I recall, there is one you do _not_ favor.” She pinned her down before about Leliana’s influence. Josephine had hoped Vivienne was wrong.

“There are some with lofty ideas, but lofty ideas rarely manifest without the necessary backing. The last thing the Chantry needs is a radical in charge of deciding its future. The Chantry’s traditions must be safeguarded. The Circle. The templars. Order. Mages must be contained. We don’t allow wild beasts to run free. The same must be said of mages.”

“Some have said that and more.” She has no opinion on the matter. Cassandra Pentaghast would be the obvious choice. But her kindness, despite her short temper, would uphold the traditions that have shackled the Chantry. That would leave Leliana. What would a Divine Leliana be like? Josephine shudders to think about it. Her passion could undo everything. “I do not flatter myself to think you have sought me only for my fine company.” Truthfully, they could have continued this coquetry for some time further. The thought of it before brought her a sense of excitement but recently it dulls her. Perhaps because there is little she can think to gain from Vivienne. Or it could be Blackwall’s eyes, boring into her from a distance that makes her want to forget herself.

“You should not forget how fine your company is, Lady Montilyet. Forgetting ourselves can be both a blessing and a curse. It is a matter of utility. You serve the Inquisition but be mindful you leave room to serve yourself.”

Ah, yes. And Madame de Fer would know all about that. Josephine reasons she’d be happier if only she had her skill. “I appreciate your confidence, Madame de Fer, but The Inquisitor and I aren’t on good terms.”

“A rather grievous misstep, darling, but one that can be rectified. Her position is lonely. Given her involvement with the spymaster and her falling out with Cassandra, it will become lonelier still. Behind every ruler, there is counsel. Offer yourself. She would be a fool to refuse you.”

“She seeks no counsel from me.” Further, she has Dorian and Leliana to steer her.

“Then see to it that she does. You guided her once. Do it again. We cannot afford to unravel all we have gained. If you want to spare Thedas from the calamity we have witnessed, you will urge her to support a more viable candidate.”

As if she could do such a thing. The matter of Divines doesn’t interest her. She is not devout. Her opinion would mean little and given their relationship and the Inquisitor’s current involvement with Leliana, it would appear pure pettiness. She has no doubt the Inquisitor will stop the threat. How the Chantry dictates the future will affect her little. Is it selfishness and privilege that makes her indifferent to the decision? In any case, she fails to see how she’ll benefit from such a persuasion.

“No doubt you question how such a feat might benefit you. I have little doubt that your involvement in the next appointment of Divine can only benefit the Montilyet name. The Chantry holds considerable clout and coin.”

“And you think I seek either?”

“Anyone with some sense strives for better.” She pats her hand and rises. “In any case, I have some matters that need attending to. It was a pleasure as always, Lady Montilyet. Do not let your gifts go to waste. Think towards the future. The Inquisition won’t last forever.”

She moves on her way and Josephine watches after her. Josephine finds it hard to believe that Vivienne could be so interested in Cassandra’s ascendence to the Sunburst Throne though perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. Vivienne and Leliana stand at opposite ends ideologically. The matter has nothing to do with her. And she isn’t sure she can be in the same room with Evelyn outside of a war room meeting.

She feels so isolated. Blackwall remains in the distance. _Thank you,_ she said when he gave her the model ship. _Thank you,_ rising to breathe the words along his lips.

“Lady Josephine?” Josephine blinks. Scout Harding stands before her, smiling quizzically. “Gosh, you were lost in some kind of thought. Hope it was good.” She hands a letter to her. “I’m sorry to bother you. This just came in. It’s got some kind of fancy seal on it but no name. I thought you might be good at sorting that kind of thing out. I don’t have a head for it.”

Josephine smiles. So now she has been relegated to sorting the mail. “I will see to it. Thank you, Lace.”

“Oh.” She rubs her neck gingerly. “You know my name. That’s…” she laughs. “Wow. It’s kind of a silly name.”

“I make it a point to know all the names of our hardworking Inquisition members.” It is a small, irrelevant victory but she’ll take it. She stands and Harding looks up at her. “And it’s far from silly. I find it charming.”

“Really?” she twines her hands nervously. “I guess I’ll … okay. Thanks.”

Josephine taps the letter against her hand, moving on her way, happy to have flustered the dwarf. Her thoughts turn again to the night prior. She will put Vivienne’s task out of her mind. She has no real reason to talk to the Inquisitor.

* * *

xxx

“Your pouting makes sense now,” Dorian muses. He drinks wine, watching Evelyn move around the room and gather her belongings. “But even if she _were_ selected, what would it mean? Since when do the clergy take a vow of celibacy?”

“Since always.” Usually, anyway.

“The Divine can do what she wants. And an Orlesian Divine—”

“She’s not Orlesian.” Though she hadn’t always known that. “This isn’t about my love life.”

“Then what are you fussing about?”

She picks up the ceremonial garb laid out on the bed and tosses it aside before moving to the garment and folding it anew. It’s impossible to still her nervous energy. There’s another pair of soft leathers, white and embroidered with the heraldry of the Chantry. She’s never worn them but tosses them to the side with the other items she’ll be taking. “I don’t want any part in this decision. I’m—”

“Biased?”

She tightens her jaw. “I don’t understand how my opinion is relevant. Most of those clerics think I’m a barbarian.” She remembers Josephine thinking the same. Her thoughts drift to Minister Bellise, the way she ripped her corset away. Josephine had been so angry. “I’m no scholar.”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste. It’s in the name.”

“I didn’t want this name.”

“But you go around calling yourself that.”

“That was the Advisors’ idea.”

“You haven’t fought it.”

“That’s funny. Fighting’s all I know how to do.” Her battles have not always been waged with swords and fists. Sometimes her weapons were rebellion and resistance. “In any case, I only fight because I have a bloody Anchor on my hand.” It seizes then, making her hand spasm. She goes hot and dizzy as what feels like a rain of knives bury into her hand. The pain stretches into what seems like forever and then it’s over. She’s quiet, grateful to have bitten her tongue. Dorian watches but makes no comment. She takes a moment to gather her bearings. “When all of this ends I’ll return to being the black sheep of the Trevelyan family.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d abandoned the position.”

She smiles. “I suppose I haven’t.” She sets the robes down and sits. “I know this all ends soon. That witch Morrigan has been playing with the eluvians. Soon we’ll be able to strike at Corypheus.”

“If he doesn’t strike first. Do you really think we’ll win this war, Cousin?”

“I wouldn’t keep doing this if I didn’t think we could win. Believe me, I’d rather spend the time I have left drinking wine and making love.”

“Given your current bed partner, I don’t blame you. What’s she like?” She looks sharply at him. “Not like that. I can’t read her at all. She can’t be a complete terror.”

“She isn’t. She’s… kind. And funny. Playful...” But she can be removed and aloof. She has so many walls Evelyn doubts she’ll ever see the end of them. “I think she’s had a lot of sadness.”

“She’s told you?” No. She’s told her no such thing. It’s a feeling she has and nothing more. Leliana tells her nothing. Evelyn stands, looking at the small collection of clothing she’s gathered. Realizing she won’t answer, he continues. “And now you’re going on a romantic getaway.”

“As much as I’d love to take her on a romantic getaway, this is anything but.” Truthfully she has a bad feeling about it. Maybe it’s nerves. Not only the ones setting her arm on fire. They can’t delay any longer. They’re getting closer to the end. A Divine will be chosen and then… then, perhaps, she returns to her lonely existence. To wine, travel, a life absent of responsibilities, a life with a string of noble women in her bed. She doesn’t want that life anymore. “I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to lose her.”

“She _is_ an excellent spymaster.” She looks at him and he laughs dryly, getting to his feet. “I never pictured you as the surrendering type, Cousin.”

“Then maybe you don’t know me. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

“Maybe before. Maybe you’ve changed. In any case, if you’re looking to be grim, you’re the one in the biggest danger of being lost.” She nods absently. The Anchor will likely kill her and she’ll be another one gone from Leliana’s life. Is it selfish to want Leliana to care for her? He comes closer, slapping her shoulder. “Don’t mind my teasing. This matter is easy to resolve. Recommend Cassandra for the position,” he crosses his arms, rising on the balls of his feet. “She’ll do well enough.”

“Is that what you would suggest?”

“Cassandra’s a hard headed fool, but a noble sort. I absolutely believe the Chantry would be better under her guidance. But I rather fancy Leliana’s way. I have a hard time imagining her following along with tradition for the sake of tradition. But you’re a templar. I suppose that sort of talk doesn’t settle well with you.”

“I’m no templar.”

“Because you don’t take lyrium anymore? Don’t be absurd.” He stops, looking over to the stairs. Evelyn follows his gaze to see Josephine. She can’t remember the last time the ambassador visited. Then it comes to her. When she returned from the Fade, after Varric died. Josephine told her she loved her but neglected to mention the engagement. The memory leaves her breathless and she’s puzzled that she can remain affected by a woman whom she only recently came to stop loathing. “You naughty girl,” he whispers to Evelyn, “the Ambassador _and_ the Spymaster? Will you take Cullen on next?”

“Shut up.” Josephine moves closer, skittish in a way Evelyn’s never seen before. “Ambassador.” She sets the robe she’s folding down. Dorian smiles between them. “Dorian was just leaving.” She regrets saying so almost immediately, any scrap of armor she might have had going with him.

“I wasn’t,” Dorian says, “but I know when I’m not wanted. Behave yourselves.” He wags a finger at them and moves on. Idiot. Josephine looks after him, a hand tentatively at her neck. ~~~~

The room has always felt vast. Now it tightens around her like a noose. Evelyn can only look at pieces of Josephine. The curl of her hair next to her cheek, the slope of her neck, the ruffles on her dress and her eyes, the color of some distant ocean.

“You’re taking a trip,” Josephine remarks with surprise, lips curving in that way they do and Evelyn is assaulted by familiarity, a forgotten warmth and trill. Some hold that past lovers have. The ones that meant anything. That might have been everything. “I wasn’t aware.”

“To Valence. It won’t be long.”

“And you’re fretting over your wardrobe,” her eyes drift to the bed and back to her. Evelyn resists the urge to pace. “You’re taking fine clothing.”

“It’s Orlais. I’d hate to be out of fashion. Your good influence,” she offers more quietly.

Josephine smiles, albeit sadly. “I see.”

They haven’t spoken since Josephine saw her and Leliana together. Is there any sense in bringing it up now? She supposes not but can’t think of any reason why Josephine has visited. The lyrium is being transported to Skyhold, the routes established, their dealers secured. Should she apologize? Why should she apologize? “Is there something that needs my attention? A noble or…”

“Ah, no.” She comes closer, lacing her fingers. Evelyn studies her fingers, wonders if the scar on her palm has faded, which ring was given to her by Adorno. Nothing she needs to think about. “As a matter of fact…” she stops, bows her head, a bashful smile gracing her lips. “Vivienne came to me earlier. She has taken great interest in the matter of the next Divine.” Evelyn stills. “For what reason I cannot say. She implored me to speak to you and urge you to support Cassandra.” She gives a small shake of her head. “I take it my machinations were intended to be more subtle.”

“Why have you told me?”

“It’s a fool’s errand. What influence am I expected to hold over you?” Evelyn smells the scent of her perfume. “In any case…”

“In any case…?”

“Ah, there is one other matter.” Her eyes are glossy. She smiles. “This room… Forgive me for running away the last we saw one another. I’m afraid I was quite overcome… and surprised.” She laughs, as if to not cry. “Though I do not know why.”

“I might have some idea,” she mutters.

“Truthfully, Inquisitor… there was a time I resented you for my loneliness. That is no fault of yours. Through deed and words I have pushed those close to me away.” She lifts her eyes and Evelyn wonders if she seeks the Maker, His guidance, His strength. “I have been accused of lacking awareness, but I have a head for what I do and I’ve taken comfort in that. Even if sometimes I fear that I am nothing more than my position. That my work and family name is all that is to be valued. I am weak. And arrogant. Stubborn. Often I am not a good person and it isn’t until much later that I realize…” she twines her hands again, looking down at them before lifting her face to look at her. “I am deeply sorry for how I have hurt you. I am not foolish enough to expect your friendship but I wanted you to hear me say it and decide for yourself whether to believe me. I did not respond appropriately to you and Leliana … I was jealous and hurt where I had no right to be. I am happy for you. I am grateful for the time we spent together and…”

“Josephine. You don’t have to—” They stop. Josephine wipes quickly at her eyes, straightens. Evelyn clears her throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that.” Once again Josephine shakes her head and Evelyn wonders whether she means to deny her words or If there’s some other regret she harbors. “I suppose I’m still a bit rubbish at talking after all.” She considers offering her wine but decides against it. The itch at the back of her brain is prowling again, desperate for a calming drink. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. But I’m not sorry to see you.”

Josephine draws a breath. Her fingers go white she holds so tightly to them.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. “Why do you suppose Vivienne sent you?” Evelyn asks.

Josephine appears relieved. “I believe I was to present myself to you as a confidante and urge you to make the right decision. As far as I can tell, she has a great dislike for our spymaster and would not have her take the seat at the Sunburst Throne.”

“Why?”

“She’s come to me before with these concerns. Simply put—Leliana has sympathy for the mages and believes in their freedom. Vivienne does not. In her eyes, they are animals to be caged. As far as she’s concerned, an appointment to Divine could unleash another dangerous calamity upon this world.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You’ve thought the same.”

“No, I haven’t.” She’s been conflicted. It isn’t the same. “What are people saying about the appointment potentially going to our spymaster?”

“Nothing. About that. I don’t think that bit of information is out to the general masses. However, there are whispers in Skyhold. Not amongst our agents, of course. They revere her. But our soldiers, our citizens? There are rumors about her work. She frightens them.”

She protects them from Corypheus and his forces and this is how they show their gratitude. Typical. “She’s keeping them safe. She’s not frightening.”

“Isn’t she? She goes too far and you know it.” Evelyn frowns. Josephine steps closer. “I received a letter from your childhood friend, Anna.” Evelyn spoke to Leliana about writing her. To tell her something… anything reassuring about her mother. “This is Brynn Cousland’s daughter, isn’t it?” Josephine looks at the letter as if trying to sort out a riddle. “Why has she written with gratitude over the matter that befell her mother? I saw that woman leave Skyhold.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Explain it to me.”

Evelyn laughs. “What makes you think I owe you explanations?”

“This letter came to Skyhold, without a name. Anyone might have opened it. Did something happen to Brynn Cousland?”

“It was suspected she was working with Arl Teagan. She made threats. The matter was resolved.”

There is no longer horror. Just disappointment. “I see. And who decided to resolve it?”

Evelyn’s lips thin. She won’t tell her how she asked Leliana not to do it. How she cried, lyrium deprived and emotionally wrecked, begging for her to be spared. Leliana was clear headed. She knew what had to be done. “I did.”

“Truly?”

“You doubt me?”

“It sounds more like our spymaster, not our Inquisitor.”

“All decisions go through me. Believe it or not, I’m more than my title.” She lifts her fingers, indicating how much more, half a finger’s worth.

“I thought you loved that woman. I thought she was significant to you.”

“I’ve loved few women. She was not one of them. She was nothing. Someone who thought too much of herself. Someone who took advantage,” she mumbles the last. She can’t look at her. She turns and feels Josephine’s eyes on her back. “Of course her family is upset. _And_ mine. Anna wrote about how devastated Father’s been. They had a grand funeral. Anna asked me to come. I suppose he and I did share something in common after all. I wonder if he knew.”

“ … Are you all right?”

“It was some time ago.” Though she doesn’t know whether she references the assassination or her involvement with Brynn.

“Why must I find out through a letter? You and the Advisors leave me out of everything.”

“You weren’t the only one left out of it.”

“I take it this was concocted by you and Leliana.”

‘Concocted’ sounds like a scheme. It sounds devious. It’s a misrepresentation of the assassination. “I intended to let you write the letter—but didn’t wish to burden you with it. It was done for the Inquisition. Leliana and I know how you feel about it. We want to protect you.”

Her nose crinkles but she swallows her words. “I don’t need protecting.” Why does everyone keep saying that? “I don’t like it. This isn’t you.”

“And who am I?” She looks back at her. “At least I’m doing something now.” Standing up for the common good. Doesn’t that mean anything? “Face it. You’ve always thought of me as a coward.”

“I’ve thought of you as much more than that. And it bothers me,” emotion cracks through her voice, “that you can be so cavalier about this. This is a life.”

“We’ve taken many lives throughout this Inquisition, Josephine. We’ll take more. We can’t afford to get our knickers in a twist about it when it happens to be a noble.” She shrugs. “Sacrifices are necessary. Be grateful your hands are clean.”

“Sacrifices aren’t always necessary.”

“They are when it matters.”

* * *

xxx

Cassandra crinkles her nose. “You smell of blood.” Leliana passes a scroll to one of her agents. He bows, moving on his way. The Rookery is colder these days. She still hates all the ravens and their constant squawking. It’s too dark here and yet Leliana is seemingly unfazed. “What have you been doing?”

“I have been working, Cassandra. Why do you ask?”

“I know you and the Inquisitor intend on leaving shortly. I advise against it. This letter that Justinia supposedly sent you—”

“There’s no ‘supposedly’ about it. It’s from her.” She takes a seat on the bench. “I doubted it before I realized she outlined it the way we’d discussed should anything happen to her. Would you believe I’ve been so foggy headed it slipped my mind?”

“I wouldn’t believe it,” Cassandra says suspiciously. She can’t imagine Leliana being distracted by anything, except perhaps the Inquisitor, but even that seems unlike her. She watches Leliana, eyes far off, a sad wistful smile on her lips. “I know you were close—”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Cassandra never understood what was between them. Were they friends? Colleagues? Something more? Leliana is not forthcoming. She never has been. But her relationship with Justinia—she has always fiercely guarded it. “I cared about her too, Leliana. She was a good woman.” That only gets a flick of her eyes and Cassandra wonders if she’s misspoken. “I came to speak of the Venatori.”

“What about them?”

“The Inquisitor is concerned—”

“Ah, yes,” she says with half a roll of her eyes, getting to her feet. “She’s sweet, no?” Cassandra tries to read her tone. “Sometimes she’s too thoughtful.”

“I don’t know that there is such a thing. In any case, she is … conflicted. I have offered her solutions. She does not like any of them.”

“The Inquisitor wants to have it both ways. Her hands are tied. Or so she thinks. But I’ll take care of it.” She crosses her arms, looking tired. “I don’t want her fretting over it.” She sighs. “I’m happy she stopped taking the lyrium but …”

“Do you regret encouraging her?”

“No. She’s better without it. Freer. Perhaps the mistake was sending Solas with her.” Cassandra disagrees. If not for him who knows what might have happened. They were being attacked from every side but she saw the Inquisitor, practically brought to her knees. The Anchor was flaring, threatening to open a tear onto all of them. If Solas had not been there to still it… “Or maybe it’s Hawke’s influence…” she muses. “Venatori are no Circle mages. She should have cut them down and been done with it. Why did you let her promise protection before so many people?”

“She said it before I could stop her.” Leliana appears to consider that. “I’ve gone over the reports. The few I could find since the Venatori were brought here. There’s no way to release them and reintegrate them with the other mages. The Inquisitor opposes Tranquility and no doubt Dorian would never let her hear the end of it if she allowed it. We could keep them imprisoned until this is all over, I suppose.”

“Perhaps.”

Cassandra doubts she’s actually considering it. “I hesitate to tell you this but we…” Leliana looks at her curiously. “I would not call it an argument. We discussed your duties. I told her no one else could do it. But I wonder. Was that right?” she looks up at her. “It’s hard work. I cannot imagine it. I do not have the… fortitude.”

Leliana smiles. “You both act like I was forced into this. No one made me. I chose it. And I excelled at it. What that says about me as a person… I’ll let the Maker be the judge.”

“So you do still believe in Him.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“You’ve been…” _Jaded. Cynical. Shaken._ “You’ve endured much. I am happy that you have someone to watch over you now. You deserve happiness, Leliana. Maker knows you’ve done enough.” Leliana makes no expression. “I trust you’ll look after her while you’re gone.”

She laughs. “It needed to be said?”

“Perhaps not. But there is only one Inquisitor and she is not yet fully recovered from the lyrium withdrawals. I have done some studying on the matter. As well as conversations with Cullen. We cannot assume her struggle is finished. The Anchor remains. The sooner you return, the sooner we can go after Corypheus, the more quickly we can attend to that arm of hers.” She gets to her feet. “That _thing_ is foul magic. Perhaps the Maker gave it to her to save us, but it is killing her. If we do not rid her of it—”

“Stop.”

Cassandra does, startled at the breathless quality of the word. She shifts. “Solas will help her. Forgive me for sounding melodramatic. When we were closer, she would complain constantly. Since her faith was restored, she seeks little outside counsel. I worry that she takes on too much.”

“Is that your way of telling me you’re jealous of my position? You missed your chance.”

Cassandra makes a face. “I cannot and will not imagine what positions you two get into.” The two women are exhausting. “There is another matter. I spoke to Josephine. She was distressed. She told me she and the Inquisitor discussed some matter regarding a noblewoman who visited here. I take it that you were involved in some way. Apparently the Inquisitor was indifferent and it bothered Josephine.”

“Josephine doesn’t like to be regarded indifferently.”

“I do not know what this matter was about and frankly I’m afraid to ask. I should not need to tell you this, but caring for someone…” She struggles to say it. She thinks of Hawke. She thinks of Dorian and Evelyn. Leliana watches her closely. “It is more than arrows and swords.” No. That wasn’t the way.

“Is it swords and shields?” Cassandra scowls. Leliana relents. “If my Night Wraith could hear you now, she’d be red to the tips of her ears.” She laughs lightly. “There’s no need to worry. I’ll protect her. If I have to spill blood to do it, so be it. If it’s my life I have to give, it will be done. I have so few bright things in my life. I’m not ready to let her go.”

Cassandra nods but isn’t sure Leliana understands.


	33. Darkness

A/N: All right. Part two of this monstrous chapter. This is a very talky section so apologies if that's not your jam. Thanks for all the kudos and feedback! Archive should have trophy unlocks.

* * *

xxx

 The inn is nestled deep in the forest.

Leliana is reminded of the illustrations in her childhood storybooks. In the stories, the inns bustled with activity. Mice scurried about making mischief, while thieves tried to make away with the innkeepers things. Only she and the Inquisitor stay tonight. She stayed in places like these after Marjolaine’s betrayal and prior to settling down in Lothering. They kept her alive. As a result she’s left with a strange mixture of foreboding and comfort.

She sits at the window looking out. She’s blind without her agents. Who knows what danger lurks near? This journey may be necessary but it leaves her guilty for abandoning Skyhold. They still have an agent to recover, another to expose… There are many things that need constant vigilance. Even sleeping riddles her with guilt.

Rain falls in sheets, leaving the forest a green, gloomy blur.

The Inquisitor sleeps.

They traveled for hours in the rain. Despite the beautiful vistas, things have been tense between them. They argued again about how to deal with the Venatori. Does Evelyn doubt her goodness? Or is her belief in it what creates difficulty between them? Leliana likes to think they balance each other: Evelyn the light to her dark.

Evelyn’s fingers flex in her sleep. Her arm is hot to the touch, forehead just as warm. Her eyebrows furrow. A nightmare?

Leliana stoops beside her. She’s taken care of many before, during the Blight in particular, when so many refugees streamed into Lothering trying to outrun it. She soothed their blackened flesh, tended to their wounds. Many died and at night she listened to the young lay sisters mourn their deaths. Together they would say it was part of the Maker’s plan but was it? What of this Anchor? If it takes her, will they also say it was the Maker’s plan? That’s how it is with Him. He lets you serve and then He takes you.

Evelyn crawls to awareness. Her eyes drift around the room uncertainly before settling on her. Leliana takes her hand delicately. “Have you forgotten where we are?” The fogginess slips away from her and she shakes her head gently, scooting back on the bed. Leliana smiles and slides in beside her. “Did you rest? You seemed uneasy.”

“A bad dream.” Then, as if sensing she’ll ask: “I don’t remember it.”

“You’re here now, with the living.” She listens to the rain tapping hard on the roof. Raindrops seep in from the ceiling. “When I was a child, I thought dreams were reality. I told wild stories of the lands I’d traveled and the many adventures I’d had. Lady Cecilie indulged me. Maybe she thought me a touch mad from losing Mother. It wasn’t until later that I realized such things were only possible for mages.”

“You don’t need magic to travel the world. You have free will.”

“Everyone should be free. We can’t choose our blood.”

“I’m not awake enough for this conversation.” She snuggles closer to her pillow. “Are we far from Valence?”

The journey is exhausting. Perhaps they should have taken carriages but neither were comfortable involving their soldiers in a potential trap. “Another few days ride. Then a ship. There won’t be cute little inns like this either. My pampered Inquisitor might have to sleep in a tent.”

“Am I so pampered?”

“Of course.” She gives her a brief kiss, fingers dancing along the palm of her hand.

Evelyn watches her fingers move, still half-drowsy. “I’ve never been there.”

“I haven’t gone in years.” The war hasn’t touched this place. Maybe that will change as they get closer to the cloister. She reminds herself to not let her guard down. “Valence is a small village. Much smaller and removed than Haven.” She smiles. “You’ll hate it there.”

“I didn’t know you were well acquainted with it.”

“ ‘Well acquainted’ is a bit much. But I spent time there when I was younger. Mother Dorothea was there and… after the Blight she asked me to come see her.” That was after the Warden died. Leliana grieved at the time. But had she known that the Warden chose to throw her life away, would she have gone there in ruins or defiant? Would she have been colder? Would she have been less malleable? Why did Justinia ask her to be her Left Hand? Did she not care how desperately she’d wanted to leave that world behind? Or did she see inside her and know what cruelty she was destined for?

“Is that when she asked you to become her Left Hand?”

“No. That was later.”

“If she hadn’t asked—what would you have done? You were a companion to the Hero of Ferelden. You could have had anything.”

She smiles wryly. “One always thinks that when it isn’t true and never thinks it when it is. That was a difficult time for me. I told you how Mother Dorothea saved me once. After the Blight she saved me again. I was… wandering. I questioned everything. She gave me purpose and guidance.”

“What about the Maker?”

“I’d had my fill of Him.”

That little frown. “I heard the Warden never walked away from that battle against the archdemon. Were you close?” she stills, the dagger that had been strapped to her thigh now in Leliana’s hand, the blade pressed to her throat. That surprise there… how she’d reveled in it in that past life, the danger, the betrayal. The accomplishment made her wet.

“So many questions. Does this still your curiosity of who I was? This is what I did to those whose trust I’d gained. To those who revered me. And on the inside I laughed at them, before I attended to my duty. They were so frightened and they could not reconcile it, because I was young and beautiful. Because they’d done nothing to me. Because to me life and death were gambles, a way to pass the time.” Evelyn swallows and the blade presses deeper to her neck. “I know you’re curious. But those stories you ache to hear—they’re only a fragment of the woman I used to be.” Leliana draws the blade away, slipping it into the sheath and sitting up.

Evelyn brings a hand experimentally to her throat. There is no line, no blood, no bruise. Her skin is unbroken, unlike her breath. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not? It was a game. Don’t you trust me?”

* * *

xxx

The rain hasn’t ceased and the thick canopy of trees leaves them in perpetual darkness. Leliana comments absently that it reminds her of the Deep Roads but Evelyn’s never been there. It’s another remark that leaves her out of reach.

For too long she’s felt like she’s fumbling in the dark. The blanket of night makes it easy to imagine the rest of the world has ceased to exist. If she keeps here too much longer it might not. Corypheus remains. Corypheus—

Leliana kisses her harder, a hand on her hip, pressing her down. Leliana’s legs slide against her own, hands to her bare skin, pushing against her. This is something bordering on violence. Maybe it’s desperation. Passion. Leliana’s been angry. Evelyn sees it, boiling beneath the surface. She doesn’t know why. It’s hard to focus. The pain engulfing her left arm strips thought from her, leaving her feverish for any other sensation. This will pass. Or maybe it’ll take her arm. Maybe it will kill her. Maybe Leliana will.

_Don’t you trust me?_ She put a knife to her throat. No lover has ever done anything like that to her. _Was_ it a game? Foreplay? A glimpse into the woman she used to be? A game to see if she trusts her still? What is an Inquisitor to a woman who’s seen and lost so much?

But her skin is soft, as are her whispers; a collection of her name and commands. This is not so different from the noble women she bedded. But it’s unlike anyone else. Maybe some part of her likes to be told what to do, begs to serve and be taken. To offer herself as sacrifice. Isn’t that what it is to be humble? To be devout? And it’s worth it. Leliana’s every touch is a blessing. Her hot kiss, the touch that shoots her to the stars. Evelyn chases it, desperate to catch her. Leliana’s somewhere else. The closer they get to this cloister, the further away she is.

Evelyn’s fingers graze the scar at her belly. It’s Leliana’s personal Anchor. Something about it always pulls her back. “Someone you love did this to you.” Why does she always tense if it was any other injury? Why that flash of hurt?

Leliana’s anchored but she retreats. Somewhere else. Backward in time, escaping into shadows of memory. She looks down at her and breathes out her disappointment. Evelyn thinks of lyrium and how it dulls the sharpest upset. “Would it make you feel better if I told you it was true?” No. She doesn’t think ‘better’. “Do you think it would make us closer?”

They’re not questions so much as challenges, scornful accusations. Suddenly it does feel familiar to before. The older women, eager to bed her, angered so quickly when she asked about them. When she asked to know them in another way. Evelyn can’t think of an answer. She hears the rain, sees the faint outline of her in the darkness. “I’m worried about you.” It’s the last thing she wants to say.

The cold of the room envelops her as Leliana moves away, taking her heat with her. Evelyn sits up, shaking but unable to tell the reason. She brought lyrium in case the sky ripped apart. In case she could no longer afford to be so principled. It’s across the room and she aches for it.

“I’m sorry that my concern makes you angry,” she says. She hates how pathetic she sounds. That she can’t even say the words mockingly. Is this what she’ll always be? Some abused mongrel begging for scraps of affection? “Something happened before we left Skyhold. You’ve been angry and distant. Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

“It isn’t your concern.”

“Why isn’t it? Is this all I am to you?” She shakes her head. No. It isn’t. They’ve said that from the beginning but now she finds herself questioning it. “Is it because you’re a candidate for the –”

“No,” she says sharply. “Leave it.”

“Leliana, I—”

“No.” She says again. Evelyn swallows. Another sigh. “I’m going to take a bath. I don’t want company. So get some rest.”

* * *

xxx

Evelyn’s lips are bruised. Leliana stares at them, not remembering what they looked like before they were split, before Josephine stitched them together. _I don’t want company_ , she’d said. But she changed her mind. A stump of a candle was lit when she returned to the room. It cast a small glow on Evelyn, who stooped by the dining table, digging through the rucksack with a startling wildness in her eyes.

Leliana felt a stir of dismay, of excitement when she looked at her. They didn’t make it to the bath until much later. Evelyn was docile when they finished. Leliana knows how eager she is for kindness and she gave it to her until that ferocity went away.

Evelyn takes a cursory look out the window. “It’s so dark here.”

Leliana can’t remember the last time the darkness bothered her. “Does the darkness frighten you?” Evelyn stands, shrugging into the leather chestpiece. It’s possible. How long did she wander in the dark after Haven fell? She was taken in Crestwood. She’s spoken little about it. The darkness of a cave. Mud in her eyes.The water that drowned her. Evelyn makes no verbal response, only looks at her. “Have I upset you?”

“I don’t like how you’ve been these past few days,” she secures the arm bracers into place, circling a belt around her hips and sheathing the knife at her back. Maybe having it strapped to her thigh made her paranoid. About her?

“How I’ve been?” Evelyn shakes her head. Clearly she doesn’t want to argue. “And how have I been?” she hears the smile in her voice, but can’t stop it.

“I’m not sure. Like this is all a big joke.”

“You’re being sensitive.” Part of her is disgusted at the both of them. Another aches to quiet her fears, to tell her everything will be all right. Then: “You keep trying to coddle me but I won’t change who I am for you.” She isn’t sure she can.

“I never asked you to,” she snaps. She yanks her boots on. “I’ll be getting the horses ready.” She grabs the rucksack and sword, slamming the door behind her.

Leliana doesn’t wince. She dresses, blinking, dragging a hand over her mouth, trying to calm. It’s normal. All couples argue. She picks up the quiver of arrows and takes the long bow, slinging it over her body and exiting. Perhaps she’s out sooner than expected or maybe the innkeepers have delayed her, but Evelyn lingers at the front desk, pushing coins at the innkeeper who won’t take them. They take her hands, praising her as the Herald of Andraste. Leliana knows how uncomfortable she is, despite her smile. “We must go, Herald.”

Evelyn disentangles herself from the innkeepers but walks out in sullen silence. Maybe she wanted some time on her own. The rain has yet to cease. There must be sunlight somewhere. In the meantime there is mud. Branches heavy with water sway side to side. Evelyn works at harnessing the horses.

“You’ll have to get used to that. The people flock to what’s holy. To their saviors.” Evelyn makes no response, stubbornly focused on saddling the horse. Leliana watches her for moments before taking the reins from Evelyn’s horse and tangling it around their arms. For the moment they’re trapped and pressed to one another. Evelyn exhales. She’s embarrassed and hurt. Leliana wonders if she’ll say so. “I’m sorry.” Evelyn has trouble looking at her. “I’ve been thinking about things. Sad things. And I’m taking it out on you. That’s not right.”

“Let me help you.” She begs as if she hasn’t already saved countless across Thedas.

“You’re here at my side. You’re already helping.” She kisses her until Evelyn’s lips relax and move softly against her own, until Leliana’s tongue slips past to touch to hers. She savors it. She used to love fighting. That meant making up, which is far more exciting. But she doesn’t want things to be like that anymore. She needs to leave those ways behind her. She thought she had. She thought the Warden taught her something but it’s hard to reconcile when she must now look at that time through new eyes. Who deceived whom? She untangles them and they finish saddling the horses.

Evelyn plants a foot in the stirrup and climbs up. “You’re pretty handy with those reins.”

She’s in a better mood. Leliana is relieved. “They have many uses. I’ll show you what else they can do later. If you’re game.”

Evelyn laughs haltingly. She’ll take that as a yes.

* * *

xxx

The woman has been watching them all evening. Evelyn first wondered if she recognized her as the Herald but her attention has been primarily on Leliana. Her amber eyes are dark and mischievous. A spy? A thief? No.

They boarded the ship hours ago, greeted in passing by the same woman who watches them now. She wears an imperial hat, breeches and a long coat that fails to hide her ample bosom. A gold stud sits beneath her lower lip. She must be Rivaini. At least, Evelyn is reminded of the women she knew there. The ones who dragged her to tents, demanding coin for fortunes she pretended she never wanted.

She wanted nothing of the Trevelyan name. She wanted a new life. Part of her thrilled at spitting on the traditions of the Chantry, another was desperate for answers, for purpose. She never found it. She found herself in drunken stupors, in the beds of women she didn’t recognize, whose names she didn’t know.

Her father tracked her down one day. He and Maxwell dragged her home. They recounted what she’d wanted to forget. The shame she brought her family, the Chantry, the Circle, the Templars. They arranged a marriage. She screwed that up, too and along the way she managed to destroy what was planned for Maxwell’s.

“Where are you?” Leliana asks. She looks towards the pirate woman. “Do you like her?”

Leliana asks as if the pirate were a dress or a menu item. Evelyn can’t decide whether to be aroused or disappointed. “She reminds me of someone. Of a place.”

“Me too.”

Evelyn looks at the woman and back to Leliana. “Is this another acquaintance?” This is no common ship. The crew, mostly men, look like sordid rogues. They are no passengers. This is no ferry. How did Leliana know to take this ship? “She’s got her eyes on you.”

“Not just me.” Leliana lifts her chin and the woman strolls closer. Her neck is adorned in gold, a contrast to her dusky skin. She sits opposite of them, pulling a flask from her side onto the table and removing her hat. Black tendrils spill free and she smiles with genuine warmth. “Isabela. I thought I recognized you beneath that enormous hat.”

“That’s funny. I wasn’t sure if it was you at all. Traded in the Chantry robes for this mysterious get up, have you? Your eyes give you away,” she lifts her fingers along her own face before turning her attention to Evelyn. Evelyn wants to ask. How do her eyes give her away? Should she know? Should she be jealous of such asides? “And you must be the Herald. I wrote a story about you. Is Cullen here? I do so love it when friend fiction comes to pass.”

“We’re not friends,” Evelyn says.

“We could be,” Isabela winks. Leliana laughs. “You’ve got my attention, Nightingale. But that’s nothing new. What kind of trouble could you possibly be getting up to in Valence? That’s where old biddy sisters go to die.”

Leliana smiles, but Evelyn only sees some wry irony in it. “I’m more interested in what you’re planning.”

“Pirates are more than just booty and plunder, even if those are my favorite parts.” She chuckles. “ ‘Parts.’ But nothing to worry about. My men and I are just passing through to restock. Say what you will about the prissy sisters but they make killer wine. The Antivans pay out the ass for it. We’ll pick up a few barrels and be on our merry way. I wouldn’t steal from the Chantry.”

“You’ve stolen from the Qun.”

Evelyn wants to hear more but Isabela waves it away. Some time passes, Isabela and Leliana discussing the years since they’ve last seen one another. They talk about Varric, and listening to Isabela, the hurt in her voice despite the smile, Evelyn wonders if that stabbing feeling will ever go away. He died for her. Sacrificed for her. For a cause. The thought is overwhelming. Her hand comes to the rucksack at her side, fiddling the sash loose. If she could just touch the bottle...

“So, Herald,” Isabela says. Evelyn’s hand slips away from the bag. “Your Spymaster and Ambassador want to rope me into this Inquisition business of yours. Bring us blackpowder, bring us lyrium. But what’s in it for me? I don’t work out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Seldom do,” Leliana remarks.

Isabela chuckles. “Not like your Warden. We had fun, didn’t we?”

“I’d rather not talk about her,” Leliana smiles, but her eyes are void of all emotion.

“We don’t have to talk.”

Evelyn looks between them. Leliana shakes her head. “I’d rather not do that, either.”

Isabela sighs. “Doesn’t anyone care about no-strings-attached sex anymore? What’s this world coming to?” She shakes her head and gets to her feet. “If you change your mind, you can find me in the Captain’s quarters.” She looks to Evelyn. “You know, saving-the-world doesn’t mean you have to be prissy. The Warden wasn’t and Leliana knew better then than to pass up a good thing.”

“Isabela…” Leliana warns.

She lifts her hands. “All right. I know and resent when I’m not wanted. You used to sing a prettier tune,” she slips the hat onto her head and bows imperiously. “Herald. Nightingale,” she slips the flask at her side and meanders away.

Evelyn watches her go, waiting for the pressure in her chest to subside but it doesn’t. Leliana slides closer, planting an elbow delicately on the table and looking at her. “She’s too much.”

“You were involved with the Warden?” She blurts the words out and is embarrassed. The pain in Leliana’s face is her only revelation.

* * *

xxx

Evelyn sits before the mirror. Wane candlelight casts a fuzzy aura around her. Leliana stands behind her and pulls the brush through her white blonde hair, a dark auburn in the light. Evelyn’s been quiet since their encounter with Isabela. It wasn’t her intention to hide her involvement with the Warden forever. She needed time. Distance. But over ten years… how much more did she need?

She would have preferred to be the one to tell her. The Herald is no priss but with talks of the Divineship and her jealousy… it’s not hard to see she’s bothered.

Leliana smooths a hand over Evelyn’s hair after every stroke. She doesn’t know what made her pick up the brush. Perhaps it was that stillness as Evelyn stared into a shadowy mirror. Maybe she wants to make it up to her. But she can’t be her mother. How could she know how? How could either of them? Maybe that’s why they wander, lost and restless. Her fingers slip through Evelyn’s hair, lighting on her neck, feeling the ripples of tension. She sits beside her. Evelyn keeps her gaze on the mirror. Leliana draws breath. “It wasn’t my intention to keep my involvement with the Warden hidden from you. It was—I needed time. I’m not comparing you. How could I?” Evelyn winces. She considers her words, feeling as clumsy as Cassandra. As clumsy as she could be with the Warden. “Inquisitor—” Evelyn looks at her then. Leliana bites her tongue. “I won’t say that I’m bluster. I’m not. But I hurt, too. I was healing. I thought I was. Losing the Warden was… difficult. When it happened it felt like the darkness had swallowed the sun. When she died… When Justinia died... I wondered, ‘what’s the point’? Justinia saved you. At first I thought—‘what a waste—to lose someone like that for _her’_.” Evelyn doesn’t quite look at her. “I keep hurting you. I’m sorry.”

Evelyn shakes her head.

“The Warden… I thought—I thought she died for noble reasons. She did, I suppose.” She laces her fingers. “You’re right. There has been something that troubled me prior to our departure from Skyhold. Morrigan told me there was a way for the Warden to be saved. Some ritual that could have kept her alive. With me. Apparently Morrigan told her taking that killing blow against the Archdemon would kill her. She knew it and she chose to leave me anyway.” She scoffs. “For over ten years I thought: how sad it is that she was taken from me, that we both lost something. Our lives. Our happiness that we fought so hard for. But nothing was lost. She threw it away.

Like Mother Dorothea, the Warden found me when I was broken. I was on the precipice of losing myself to my own darkness. I pretended to be better than those around me but inside, I didn’t believe it. Eventually the Warden came to know who I was. When she walked away—did she reject me? Who I was?” She gets to her feet. “ What is pride? What is the higher moral ground when it means losing everything? She knew what I had suffered. I thought she accepted me, despite my flaws.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. I would have done anything to keep her safe. I would have sacrificed everything. This ritual that Morrigan wanted. Why would the Warden reject it?”

She looks helpless. “Maybe it was nefarious. You’ve said Morrigan’s not trustworthy. “

“Sometimes we deal with snakes to get what we want. That’s what you do when you love someone. That’s what you’re meant to do. You save them, even if it means losing your principles. Losing yourself.” Maybe she never meant as much as she thought to the Warden.

Evelyn looks up at her, eyes dark blue in the light. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Her sincerity is painful. Leliana bites her lip. Wilts. She kneels before her. She knows how they think her cold. Cassandra. Josephine. Even Marjolaine. “Sometimes I’m so angry…” It chokes her even now. “Maybe it’s this work, or my disappointments. I feel like the Maker has turned His gaze away from me. Why else would everyone that matters to me be made to withstand such things? Have I not given everything?”

“Yes. Everything.”

Moments pass. She takes Evelyn’s hands. “I know how others have made you feel less than. I don’t want there to be anything standing between us. I feel like I can be lighter around you. You look at me… in a way I haven’t been looked at in a long time.” She palms Evelyn’s face. It’s cold but warming. “You see something more than my role. Someone worthy. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing myself. Those thoughts nag at me but I can’t let them. I know I can’t give this up. The Inquisition is too important. You’re too important.”

Evelyn’s fingers wrap around her hand. Her palm sparkles with light and Leliana feels it hot against skin. Her lips brush against her fingers. “I love you.” Evelyn meets her eyes. “I’m terrified I might love you more than the Maker Himself.” Leliana doesn’t know in what way she means. But the words have taken her breath. They have made her warm, like wine. “That’s wrong, isn’t it?” Is it? Does He deserve unconditional love? He’s so selfish. He shouldn’t get everything. Her mouth is dry.

“Love is stronger than Gods.”

* * *

xxx

They spend the subsequent days of the journey making love, sometimes lazy, other times urgent and demanding. Evelyn stands before the mirror, observing her reflection. She follows the red scratches along her body like ribbon, places where Leliana left her mark. She shrugs into the Inquisitor’s robes. Leliana wraps her arms around her waist, tying the robe closed, pressing her face to her back. “We’ve just docked. The ride isn’t long from here.”

Evelyn covers Leliana’s hands with her own, turning her face to try to look at her. “You’ll have your answers soon.” And peace, she hopes. She’s been itching for lyrium. Her arm burns and the thought of Leliana’s involvement with the Warden scalds further. Who is she compared to that woman? She tries to bury her insecurity. She smiles too hard but Leliana sees through her. Kisses her as if to quell those fears.

They exit the ship after they’ve gathered their horses. The skies are grey and cloudy. A rainstorm looms despite the golden outline of the sun. They wave goodbye to Isabela. Evelyn’s happy they’ve parted ways. She doesn’t want to imagine Leliana with the pirate, not with another, anyway.

“You shared the Warden with Isabela. Would you share me?”

“You ask for permission once we’ve left the ship? Too little, too late.”

“What if we run into her again in Valence?” Leliana’s amusement loses its luster. She should let it go. She can’t. “Are you different? Is it about being closer to the Hero of Ferelden?” They’ve known each other as long, if not longer, than Leliana knew the Warden.

“I’ve said I don’t wish to talk about the Warden, no? Please respect that.” Evelyn bites her tongue. They ride into another densely wooded area. The shadows fall and creep again and Evelyn looks around warily. “For what it’s worth, I have no wish to share you. I have so few possessions. I can’t bear to part with another.”

“And now I’m reduced to a possession,” she mock scowls.

“One that I can’t keep in my treasure chest.”

“Luckily for me. I’d hate to have a repeat performance of Grand Duchess Florianne.” She still hasn’t forgotten the smell of rotting meat.

“Ah, you say that now but I remember how eager you were to take her to the dance floor.”

“You’ll forgive me for not recalling it happening that way. I was bleeding out at the time.”

“You did look awful pale.” Evelyn frowns at her and Leliana laughs, light and soft. Leliana brings the horse close. She reaches out to her but a whistle makes her pull back. An arrow lodges firmly into the tree just behind where Leliana’s arm was moments ago. They stop, fingers clenching around the horses’ reins. Evelyn searches the sky for a rift, the canopies of trees for an assailant. Leliana pulls the long bow out, nocking an arrow and searching the darkness.

“I don’t see anything,” Evelyn whispers.

More whistling. Arrows move like fingers through the air. There’s a twang as Leliana looses an arrow. A figure plummets from a distant tree, crashing into hard ground. Evelyn stares at the body until all she sees is a robe and a hood and an arrow. Leliana has moved in front of her. She takes a pinched breath. “You’ve gone white,” Leliana tells her. Her voice is strained, her brow lined with sweat. Her fingers wrapping around the arrowhead that gleams crimson, jutting out of her chest. Evelyn touches her own absently, convinced she’s become a quiver too.


	34. The Crucible

Nath: re your comment! Thank you and do not worry, that is NEVER EVER going to happen. Actually, I tend to hate that kind of cheap plot resolving, so breathe easy!

Another talky chapter but this one wraps this one up. 

Everyone else! Thank you for leaving me feedback! I've been so busy and trying not to lose my mind with this upcoming election. I'll try to reply to everyone individually since your reviews are literally the best. Everyone go vote!

* * *

 xxx

They hurtle through the forest, flinging themselves through it like a spell. Leliana rides hunched over until Evelyn snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her onto her own horse. Evelyn ignores her objection, despairing as Leliana’s head sinks. Blood makes Evelyn’s hand sticky and hot.

She doesn’t know where they’re headed; she hopes only to outrun the arrows. She looks for light, an exit but doesn’t see it. The horse eventually slows, fatigued. Evelyn desperately takes in her surroundings. She’s clammy, her face blanketed in cold sweat.

To think she’d been eager to get away from Isabela. It was a mistake not to wear armor. She didn’t think it’d be too much further. She thought they were out of danger. She let her guard down and Leliana’s paid for it. For all she knows they’re going in circles. She tries to rouse Leliana but only gets soft mutterings. She flicks the reins of the horse, gently urging it on.

The sky drips orange and red. Night is settling. The horse plods along. Leliana’s was lost hours ago. Evelyn swears under her breath and holds her close, lips against her ear. She whispers prayers without knowing, without knowing to whom. This is her punishment for claiming to love her more than the Maker. Is this what a jealous god does? Take as punishment?

Leliana sighs softly. Evelyn stops the horse but Leliana’s hand covers her own, pulling gingerly on the reins. “Are you all right?” Evelyn asks. The arrow has been partly snapped off. Evelyn isn’t sure when Leliana did it. “We need to get out of here. We need to get you taken care of.”

“This is nothing.”

“But—”

“Stop talking.” Her voice is bone dry. “They could hear us.”

Evelyn strains to listen but only hears Leliana’s raspy breath, sees the outline of branches reaching out like spindly fingers.

* * *

 

xxx

Torches burn in the dark. They trudge ahead. Eventually the horse refuses to move further. Evelyn dismounts, scooping Leliana down and into her arms. She’s surprisingly heavy against her and by now Evelyn has lost feeling in her fingers. She wraps Leliana’s arm around her shoulders and walks carefully, her Inquisitor’s robes dragging along the muddy ground.

It’s raining again.

It soaks them before they stumble into the inn. Like the one before, it’s practically deserted. Evelyn throws coin at the innkeeper and takes the stairs up, carrying Leliana like a cumbersome bag of grain. The cold sweat of before is replaced by hot as she kicks the room door open. “Not going to carry me in?” Leliana asks. She tsks. Evelyn would smile if it weren’t for the horrible wet wheezing sound Leliana makes.

“Maybe for our honeymoon,” she suggests.

Leliana grimaces a smile. They straggle in and Evelyn kicks the door shut behind her. Leliana is pale but smiles at seeing her face. Even now she tries to reassure her. “My eyes are up here, Inquisitor.” Evelyn wants to tell her everything will be all right but can only see arrow. She’s unaccustomed to wandering without healers and satchels full of potions. She has only vague recollections of what she learned in the Order on how to deal with injuries. Her hands shake violently. She silently begs the Maker’s forgiveness. She begs him for mercy. She is a fool. She is stupid. She is unworthy. She will recite the benedictions. Anything, anything. Spare her.

Leliana takes an unsteady seat on the bed. Her hood falls back, hair spilling over her face as she looks down at the arrow, taking a hold of it again. Evelyn starts a fire and casts her sopping, muddy Inquisitor’s robe aside to dig through her satchel. Lyrium. Lyrium and no potions. What the Void was she thinking? Even now it demands she consume it. She’s fretting when she hears Leliana cry out, something mangled and not quite human. She flings the arrow aside and it clatters across the floor. Her hand goes to the wound, blood pumping past her fingers like dark sap. Evelyn moves to her, realizing that any potions Leliana might have brought were with her horse that is long gone. “I’ll find an herbalist,” she stammers. “I’ll get you potions.” Leliana shakes her head. “Why not?”

“This is a small village. That arrow might have been meant for you. They will know you’re here. There’s something they want. Whoever sent this letter…”

“Everyone wants to take me out. It could have been anyone.”

“I doubt that. Losing you would destabilize the Inquisition. It would end everything. I cannot lose you. I won’t.”

Evelyn lifts a hand, putting it over the wound. It nearly struck her heart. It nearly stopped it. A flood of anger courses over her as the blood presses against her fingers, warming them. “I can’t leave you like this.”

“Then don’t leave me at all. It’s worse than it looks and I’d rather have you next to me. I’ve suffered worse than this, Inquisitor. Much worse.” She smiles something grim and broken, her eyes years away.

“I wish I could take this from you.” She’d do anything to take this hurt. To make it so it never happened.

“That’s kind.” She looks to the fireplace. “Put that poker in the fire. I know something you can do.”

* * *

 xxx

The Inquisitor wears white boiled leathers with the heraldry of the Chantry. Leliana’s never seen these. No doubt something Josephine had commissioned. If only she wore that black crown on her head. She’d look quite striking.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the journey, the fever, but Leliana sees little trace of the woman she knows. Evelyn sits at her side with a plate of food. Leliana eats, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in her chest, the piece carved out of her, seared into place. She’s sure the arrow was poisoned. Part of her daily regimen at Skyhold is to build her tolerance to a variety of commonly used toxins. If not for that, she’d likely be dead. Outside of the waves of dizziness and nausea, she’s fine. Perhaps she should tell Evelyn but she worries enough.

“No Inquisitor’s robes today?” she knows the answer, saw the robes burning in the fire earlier in the morning. Evelyn has been beating herself up over the attack. Perhaps over the title that will always mark her as a target while this Inquisition exists.

“I’d hate to show off.”

“Everyone should every once in a while.” Even if she understands that now more than ever they must lay low. Leliana touches her fingers to her white, blonde hair. Evelyn turns haltingly towards her. Leliana’s thoughts hazily shift to hours ago. She’d fixed her eyes on Evelyn, who held the bright red tip of the poker to her injury. Her flesh blistered and burned, the wound cauterized. The excruciating pain left her disoriented; otherwise, why would that agony be painted so clearly on the Inquisitor’s face, as if she were the one being burned? “I know this is more than you bargained for. It was selfish to ask you to come.” Evelyn shakes her head. “It was. Whatever peace I might gain isn’t worth the risk.”

There’s an answer, bright and hot in her eyes and then it dims. “Whatever is in that chantry is important to the Inquisition. Better we have it than our enemies. Your peace has nothing to do with it.” But her fingers glide so tenderly along her face that Leliana can’t believe it. The Inquisitor lifts a hand, lets it hover over her chest and Leliana wonders if she can feel the heat radiating from the injury. Her fingers close, not touching her. She rises, fingers kneading her forehead.

“Harsh words from the Inquisitor who proclaimed her love only days ago.”

“I wonder if he’s punishing us for what I said. For loving you more.”

“Ah. These are all questions we ask ourselves, yes? The love of the Maker is meant to be unconditional but He’s petty, isn’t He? And mean. Why do we sacrifice so much for Him? He laughs at it.”

“Don’t say that. The Maker is…” She’s contrite, her eyes evasive. “I know I’m soft.”

Leliana chuckles. “You’re satin.” She stands, biting back her cry of pain. She remains feverish. “But I like that about you. We spoke of balances, yes? I know we’ve fought. I thought you weak and you thought me severe. But throughout it all, you’ve always made it, haven’t you? Fighting your way to the light no matter the dark.” She strokes Evelyn’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I love that about you. And…” she hesitates, or her body fights her, years of stoicism, years of bottling her emotions. “And more. And more, my Night Wraith.”

Leliana sees that conflict on her face.

She steps closer, but can’t quite lean into her, not without pain screeching to the surface. For now she wants to pretend it isn’t there. It works if you bury it for long enough. She wraps her arm around her, fingers brushing the cold hilt of the dagger at the small of her back. “We’ll be out of here soon,” she says. “Perhaps you doubt my words. But give me time. Please.” She doesn’t know who she asks. Perhaps the Maker. No matter how angry, she always turns to Him, doesn’t she?

* * *

 xxx

The Inquisitor sits cross legged on the floor, thumbing through the book of stories Leliana gave her. The Inquisitor tenderly applied ointment to her wound earlier. Leliana feels it throbbing and burning, seeping. If they could have gotten to a mage earlier it wouldn’t leave a mangled scar. But it’s too late now. Leliana doesn’t mind. It was an arrow taken for the Inquisitor. That means something. Some token of affection. “Can I tell you a story?”

They’re waiting for night to fall and that’s always put her in a storytelling mood.

Evelyn smiles wearily. “You don’t ever have to ask.”

“And here I worried you’d tease me. I made such a grand speech about my storytelling days being behind me, after all.” Perhaps the Inquisitor makes her want to tell stories again.

“I’ll tease you later if you’d like. Once you’re feeling better.”

Leliana laughs, fingers gliding absently around the wound. “I’ll hold you to it.” Evelyn closes the book and turns, looking up at her. “Long ago, when I was very young, I met a woman. She was no mage but she cast a spell over me. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman but she was the most clever. Where ever she went, all watched. Like all the others, I desired to be close to her and one day, she turned her gaze towards me.

It was a most curious feeling. I felt like I was drowning and touching the sun. We became closer and everything she did, I wanted to emulate. The way she moved, like a prowler, sensual and quiet as the shadows. Even the way she laughed. Everything we did was for the Game. She was the finest player and she trained me to be the same.

She taught me everything. How to dance as if I were made of air— and also, how to make our clumsy partners look graceful so they would want to be near us. They kept us close, drunk on the false belief that they controlled us. Having someone in your thrall is a very powerful feeling and the nobles we toyed with ached for it.

It was easy and Marjolaine showed me that unbeknownst to them, we were the ones with all the power. Anything I wanted, she provided. Money was no obstacle. I wanted pretty dresses and so she took me shopping for dresses. We had the most delicious meals, prepared by the highest regarded chefs across Thedas. I lived a life of decadence. I always had the finest things. What she gave me made what Lady Cecilie had given seem like nothing.” It shames her to think of it now. “I was young… and looking for adventure.

Marjolaine knew my mother had passed… and she was close to me. She possessed me with touches. On my shoulder. On my arm. Along my back. She taught me what it was to love a woman. In many ways. Or so I thought. And because she was the first to give me love—adult love— and because she made me feel she felt the same, I was hers.

But as most first loves go, it did not last. One day we were given an objective. One of many. It was a night of games. It was a night of murder. That night we went to Denerim. I killed a man for running his tongue about the nobles. I did it because I was hired to do so, but mostly I did it because it was fun. That’s who I was then.” The Inquisitor is still and silent. “Now when I think about the events that led up to Marjolaine’s betrayal… I should have seen it coming. How young I was. How naïve. How happy.” Her throat closes. She swallows. Continues. “It was all a cover for Marjolaine, of course. She was to plant documents at the Arl of Denerim’s estate… We caught up with her later. Tug, Sketch and I. Friends.” She says the word curiously, as if it were from another language. “They say that curiosity killed the cat. Well, I was always curious and so I took it upon myself to see what was planted. They were Orlesian documents with the military seal.” Evelyn waits, not seeming to understand the gravity. “It was a betrayal to Orlais. To be caught with these documents, to even be implicated in planting them, would mean a death sentence. We were there on Marjolaine’s orders. I panicked. I confronted her. I wish I could say it was only about the danger, about treason... I was jealous… There was a man there. Harwen Raleigh. We’d shared men before, always part of a game. She said the same to me that night. She was as stunned as I was by what I had discovered. And she said she would mend it all. And I believed her. Because then, I believed anything. Betrayal was a game to me. What Marjolaine and I did to our marks. Not with each other. Never with each other.

It all fell apart. Tug, Sketch and I had to fight our way out of that estate. We made it out with our lives but just barely. Or so I thought. When we went out into that night... The air was chilly. I should have known. I still remember the smell of hay distinctly. There was a pumpkin patch, and the vines snaked around my ankles. And then there was Marjolaine. _Shh_ , _my pretty thing, shh. I have a way out_. And that blade into my side. That pain… it was nothing compared to the betrayal. The air went out of me but it wasn’t because of the dagger.

Marjolaine left me to die. I was captured. I was tortured. For days. The men there… There were… terrible… terrible things that happened to me. That were done to me.” Evelyn reaches out, taking her hand. Leliana lets their fingers thread absently. “I wanted to die. I begged for death. But it did not come. One day my cage was open. I don’t know how. All I knew was that it was with the help of a mysterious benefactor. I heard a woman’s voice, telling me to fight for those who didn’t have the strength. I found Sketch and a man named Silas but Tug was dead. We escaped but I blamed myself. I still do. For all of it. I was the one to insist the job would be fun. That it would make us coin. That Marjolaine could be trusted.

Later, we were summoned to a chantry in Ferelden and that’s where I officially met Mother Dorothea. She was the one to help me while I was imprisoned. And as it turns out, Marjolaine had made her fall in love with her, too. With all the usual ways, I imagine, all to serve her purposes. To get those documents we planted to begin with. Dorothea and I never spoke too much about our involvement with her.” She clears her throat and then there’s a long and heavy silence. “But that hurt she caused us, it brought us together. And after that, perverse as it may seem, I felt indebted to her. Mother Dorothea. The Grand Divine Justinia. She led me. She saved me. She knew me for what I was and she accepted me. I am who I am because of her. Because of Marjolaine.” She laughs caustically. “But who am I?”

“You’re Sister Nightingale. Left Hand of the Divine. Spymaster to the Inquisition. Perhaps the future Divine.”

She smiles wryly. “Ah, but who is Leliana?” A woman who wanders, letting the women in her life shape her? No. That cannot be all.

“You’re whatever you choose to be. You’re good, intelligent, passionate… you’re the woman I love.” Is it really that simple? Evelyn studies her. “What happened to Marjolaine?”

“In the beginning I went after her. I wanted revenge for what she’d done. I tracked her down to some middle of nowhere place in Ferelden. She was still with Raleigh.” Even now the bitterness is evident. “She told me what she’d done was what any real bard would do. That she had stopped me before I could stop her. She told me I was the same. I thought she was mad. But something about her words affected me. I let her live, only to prove her wrong. After that, I wanted nothing of the Game. Of her. I hid from her for years, wandering from place to place before taking sanctuary in a chantry in Lothering. When the Blight came, I went out of hiding. I knew that I had to do what I could to help stop it. Of course, as soon as I surfaced, Marjolaine came after me again. She killed others to get to me,” she snarls. “I couldn’t believe her paranoia. I was angry and afraid, so we went to Denerim to confront her. It’s fitting, no? To return to the place where the betrayal began. But once there, I found myself conflicted. The Warden convinced me killing her was the right thing to do. That she was obsessed. That she would never give up her pursuit.”

“What did you do?”

“I killed her. I wish I could tell you that I cried. But when she bled out, all spark of life vanishing from her eyes, I was relieved. I was… excited. I was better at the Game than she was. Later I agonized over it. It was like I’d woken up from a trance. I felt grief and loss. I was… disgusted with myself. Marjolaine betrayed me and many good people died because of her. But she’d shown me kindness, in her own way. And I had loved her. The Warden reassured me. She told me she accepted me as I was. That I shouldn’t feel shame for reveling in the excitement of the hunt. I thought, here at long last is someone who accepts and loves me for what I am. We can start a new life. We can be happy together.

But she died. Mother Dorothea wanted me at her side so I went to her. She wasn’t a Divine yet but she was on her way. She needed someone clever and hard. The kind of person who has it in them to kill their lover. To kill for a cause. To do what others cannot.”

“You’re more than that.”

“No, I’m not.” She stands. “Believe me, I’ve fretted about it. But why? These are my trades. Death and deception. That’s who I am. Just like Marjolaine said.” Evelyn shakes her head but Leliana ignores it. “Even if I wasn’t then, that’s who I’ve become. I wish I could be better. But I’m not. We each give and sacrifice in our own way. The DuParaquettes, the Brynn Couslands of the world, our enemies, lying low in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity to take the light from the world. Someone has to stop them. So I’ll do it.” Even if the thought numbs her further. The Inquisitor’s brow furrows. “I’ll keep doing it.” She scoffs softly. “I remember when all of this bored me.”

“When what bored you?”

Leliana doesn’t answer.

* * *

 xxx

Leliana walks ahead. It was a mistake to bring the Inquisitor here. The last remaining candles that burned in the windows of the small village homes have been extinguished. Their footsteps stick and crunch as they move past patches of mud and grass. The moon hangs fat and low, its crescent edge a crimson hue.

Evelyn walks behind her, making more noise than Leliana would like. She can’t imagine how loud she’d be if she’d worn heavy armor. As it is, she looks like some ceremonial Chantry guard in her impeccable white leathers. She pulls a hand back through her hair anxiously, stopping when she spies Leliana watching her.

Leliana brings a finger to her lips. They must be quiet. Evelyn nods, unknowingly massaging her hand as they move on. Valence is a quiet little village. It seems unassuming in the night. It was peaceful here. Beautiful. Perhaps it still is. What has Justinia left for her? Whatever it is, it’s critical she have it. Yet, she feels a small measure of resentment. Why is she pulled here? Why, after death is she beckoned to Valence once more? She took hold of her life here. A new path began. Dedicated, above all, to Justinia and the Maker. Her hands have run red ever since. To secure this new weapon… how much more blood will she have to spill?

They arrive at the cloister doors. Evelyn puts a hand on the doorknob but Leliana stops her. “I don’t expect for us to run into anyone here.” Not if they still observe the traditions of before. “But if we see a sister or cleric, let me do the talking.”

Evelyn crosses her arms and Leliana sees a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Is the Herald of Andraste not fit to speak with the clergy?”

For all she knows, the chantry could be involved in the attempted attack of the Herald. She considers. “I know of your devotion to the Chantry and the Maker. And I applaud you, Herald. I know how it fills you and gives you purpose.” She once felt the same. “But the clerics, the Chantry, the agents of the Sunburst Throne—they can be no different than the various guilds of assassins we work with. Don’t let your guard down. They won’t hesitate to turn against you if it benefits them.”

“Are we anticipating an army of sisters? I think I can handle myself. You said Justinia might have instructions for you but I can’t imagine what would be valuable enough for us to come here. You’re no longer with the Chantry. You serve the Inquisition now.” A beat. “Is this about your potential appointment?”

She shakes her head. “It’s hard to explain. Perhaps I’m being foolish. You do not know how she shaped me. When there was doubt, I looked to her for guidance. Some days, I still find myself doing that. And then I remember that I’m alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

Evelyn’s angry. The words came out so naturally. She hurts her. She continues to hurt her. She fears her loss. She’s preparing herself. Leliana knows how Evelyn tries to hide the pain she’s in. Maybe she wants to keep her at a distance but what good is it? The Inquisitor has already expressed her love and she has all but done the same. It’s too late for them now. “No. You’re right.” She takes a breath. “There’s something about this place… It’s bringing out the worst in me.” Perhaps because this is where she began a path she hasn’t been able to turn away from. “You’ll follow my lead, yes?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice.”

“An Inquisitor in my thrall. Lucky me.”

* * *

 xxx

The cathedral is quiet. Her footsteps are soft but the Inquisitor’s ring like a knell. Evelyn looks around, taking it in. It remains beautiful, if not haunting. The floors are a marbled mirror. Paintings detailing the Chantry’s teachings line the wall. Candles burn and drip but they don’t do anything to beat back the shadows. The air is cold.

It does not appear that Corypheus has touched this place and yet, she is left uneasy.

The Inquisitor stands at one of the paintings, the candlelight casting a halo over her. Leliana stares until Evelyn shifts and it’s gone. “So,” Evelyn says quietly, “how exactly are we to get to these instructions?”

“Ah, leave that to me.” She did not bring Justinia’s letter but she has memorized it. She left clues. They’re linked to this cloister. Once she’s unraveled them, their prize will be bared. “The first—” she stops, hearing a sound and turns to see a woman. Evelyn steps forward, eyes narrowing but Leliana gives her a warning look and she stops, remaining in the shadows.

The woman is skittish as she comes closer before setting her eyes like arrows upon her. Leliana smiles, despite how her injury burns. “Sister Natalie?” What’s she doing here?

“Leliana. Is that you?” Natalie moves over, determining that is it her before wrapping her arms around her and hugging her too fiercely. A hot flush of pain moves over Leliana as Natalie’s perfume infests her senses. It’s the same perfume of ages ago. Quality, but not so much as she’d like it to be. There are prickle-weed burs on her hem. Curious.

“I thought you were in Val Royeaux.” Leliana says. She sees the question in Evelyn’s eyes and shakes her head. No. This she doesn’t trust.

“No. I have been serving here ever since Justinia died.” She pauses, looking around her as if to take in the marvel. “What happened to her is a terrible shame.”

“Yes,” Leliana says. “Her loss was difficult. But this cloister has always filled me with comfort. Few know that Justinia and I spent some time here. Even now I can feel her presence all around us. It makes me feel safe, no matter the terror in the world.” She smiles despite the cold anger she feels, surprised at how bright her voice is. “Inquisitor, this is Natalie, a trusted friend.”

The Inquisitor moves then, stepping out of the darkness and into the glow of the candles. Sister Natalie looks at her, startled before carving a smile onto her face. “Inquisitor…?” The surprise is curious. Was she not involved in the attempt on the Inquisitor’s life or was it as Evelyn suspected? Some other force wanting to take her out? Has she become paranoid? “I did not know you were here. I did not recognize you.” She studies Evelyn, as if to memorize her face. Leliana has done the same, though not for the same purpose. She considers gouging Natalie’s eyes out. It would be easy enough. Natalie drops to her knee. “Forgive me.”

Evelyn looks down at her. “Look at that. It’s not every day a sister deigns to recognize a false prophet.” Her smile isn’t quite her own before it eases into something more recognizable. “I wish more would fail to recognize me.”

Leliana shakes her head. “She’s joking. I’m afraid our Inquisitor has a strange sense of humor.” She outstretches a hand to Natalie who takes it. Leliana tugs her to her feet, the motion tugging at her wound. “I was unsettled on the way here but to be in this place again, among friends…” she sighs. “Natalie… you’ve been here all this time, so perhaps you can help me. Justinia left something hidden here for me.”

Natalie brightens. “Oh? What could it be?”

“I don’t know but we must find it. I believe it’s fate and not circumstance, that has drawn us all here, yes? Whatever Justinia has left, it could change everything. We cannot afford to waste another second.”

“Should we gather the other sisters?” Evelyn asks.

“No,” Leliana says. “This matter is sensitive. And I would prefer we kept it among friends.” That seems to satisfy Natalie. Leliana urges her ahead. She narrows her eyes and follows.

* * *

 xxx

“Do they still sing the benedictions on Friday?” Leliana asks.

Natalie stumbles over herself, insisting that the traditions of the Valence cloister could never be forsaken. Leliana smiles at her. “That’s lovely to hear...” Why had she wanted to trust her? Is she so trusting still? “The letter Justinia sent me had clues meant to lead me in the right direction. The first is: _Always remember that faith is sprung from a barren branch._ ”

“Oh?” Natalie asks. “What could it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Leliana says. “Let’s keep searching.” It’s obvious what it means. Before Dorothea she had not been religious. She had not cared for the Chantry and its teachings. She did not care for the Maker. Marjolaine was her Maker. The Game her religion. And when Marjolaine betrayed her, like Maferath betrayed Andraste…when her torturers and rapists left her broken… It took some time to realize she’d survived. Some time before she learned to breathe again. When air finally came into her lungs it seemed to come to her through the will of the Maker, through Mother Dorothea’s good graces.

They accepted her unconditionally. They shaped her. They gave her back her life. So, yes. She owed them everything. Evelyn is the same. She came to religion at her most broken. Leliana can’t decide if faith is a blessing or a predator.

Evelyn stands at a painting of a rose, vibrant and alive despite being surrounded by dead branches. Her fingers skim over the frame. Soon there’s a pop. She smiles at Leliana, who nods in return. “Good. Now let’s find the others. The second clue she wrote me was that _above all, strength lives in an open heart.”_

So many paintings. Part of her doesn’t want to solve this riddle. It will serve the Inquisition but it is unlikely it will serve her. She knows what she will likely find. More instruction. More commands. She’ll never be able to lay down her burden. Never mind the possibility of becoming Divine. Now, there’s the Inquisition and Evelyn to care for. She cannot abandon them. Not while they stand.

She comes to the painting of Andraste’s death. A halo over her head, a spear through her heart. Evelyn stands beside her to look at it. She flexes her hand and no matter how much Leliana wants to take it, she knows she cannot. She crosses her arms and stares at the painting, the patches of color, the lines the brush strokes left, revealing more about the artist than they likely anticipated. “I suppose there are times when death can be a kindness,” Evelyn says.

“I suppose. But often it is not. Often it is simple necessity. A means to an end.” She thinks that Evelyn will reach out to her and moves away, hearing the second click as something moves into place. Sister Natalie moves around the space, looking around desperately for the last solution. “Have you been troubled as I have in these times, Natalie?”

She has a startled quality about her. “Ah, yes. Of course.” She clasps her hands tightly. “I stare up at the Breach sometimes. When you see it as the sun rises, it splits into what looks like a thousand suns, bright like a broken mirror. It is terrifying but beautiful.” Leliana nods despite knowing that the very Breach and the Anchor on Evelyn’s hand are killing her. “You look at it long enough… you see the world fragmented… but at times I cannot tear my gaze away. How have you dealt with it Inquisitor?”

Evelyn looks over at her. Leliana knows there’s something on the tip of her tongue but she doesn’t say it. Instead she gives a half-hearted shrug.“I’ve been fortunate. The Maker is with me. He and my allies have helped me through.”

“Leliana is certainly a powerful ally to have,” Natalie says. “And so close to Justinia. Speaking of Divines, Leliana, I have begun to hear some terribly exciting rumors about you…”

“Oh, have you? I don’t pay any attention to that myself.” An obvious lie but an acceptable one, a pretense at humility. They chit-chat. Eventually Evelyn bores of listening to it and asks for the third clue. “The last thing she said to me is that _light has no fear of the darkness.”_

Evelyn flicks her eyes away. Leliana knows she hasn’t slept in days. “Brilliant. There’s only about a thousand candles here.”

“Be patient, Inquisitor. We will find our prize. I’m certain of it.”

Yes, she is. She skims the room but mostly keeps her eyes on Natalie as Evelyn all but paces the room, looking frustratedly at the candles. They’re getting close. Soon they’ll have answers and once more, action will be demanded of them. Leliana tries to remember the last time she didn’t have the smell of blood all around her.

There’s one last pop and she and Evelyn turn to Natalie who hovers over the brazier, her eyes shining with triumph. She looks now towards the wall. A secret door has opened. So, this was a message from Justinia. She wasn’t simply deluding herself. Natalie moves to it with purpose before Leliana stretches out, the way she always has, taking hold of her, slamming her into the statue of Andraste.

Natalie’s eyes double. “What are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing? That’s a very interesting question. You know what I’m doing. I’ve come back for what Justinia has left for me. As have you.” The blade is in her hand now. It allows her to stretch farther. “I wanted to believe you,” the anger makes her voice shake, “but you’re like the others.”

“I—”

“Shh. Shut that pretty mouth of yours, if you would be so kind. They never sing the benedictions here on Fridays. It was something so simple and yet you got it so wrong. I see everything now. The prickle-weed burs upon your hem, talking about the sun rising through the Breach. It all points to a single place: Morelle in the Dales, Grand Cleric Victoire’s bastion. She sent you, didn’t she? Victoire was always an opportunist.” Natalie struggles against her. Though it hurts to keep her still, Leliana refuses to relinquish an inch. “You’re sloppy. Just as you always were. It’s no wonder you never gained influence in the Chantry.” She feels Evelyn’s presence behind her and presses the blade closer to Natalie’s neck as if to keep her at bay.

“You’ve been outplayed, Sister Natalie,” Evelyn says. “Tell us why you’re doing this and you’ll walk out of here. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

Natalie scoffs. Leliana’s lips thin. “Do not make promises you don’t intend to keep, Inquisitor. We will have our answers. I can get any answer out of her.”

“Leliana, don’t.”

“Why not? I’m protecting us.” Natalie tries to move and Leliana throws her back again. She takes hold of Natalie’s finger and twists until there’s a snap. Natalie screams, but Leliana muffles it with a hand to her mouth. Tears squeeze out of Natalie’s eyes. “You think that’s bad? I haven’t even started. Don’t test my patience, Natalie. I have an endless supply.”

“Leliana!” Evelyn goes to her, fingers clenched, quiet and commanding. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes flickering between afraid and excited. She’s seen this before. “Stop it.”

“No. Not until I have my answers.” She takes another one of Natalie’s fingers but keeps the blade at her neck. “Do not struggle,” she warns. “You would be surprised at how deeply I can dig this blade before you bleed out. You will be feel every excruciating moment. Are you ready to be more forthcoming or shall I snap another finger?”

“So this is who stands at the side of the heretic Inquisitor?” Natalie asks. She laughs. “You think you’re better than me? Look at the things you do, Leliana. You are a monster.” Leliana snaps a second finger. Natalie convulses but remains upright. Sweat runs down her face. “You want the truth? I’ll give it to you, ‘friend’. There are many within the chantry who disapprove of this ‘organization’ you have. The Inquisition is an insult to the true Chantry. You are turning Thedas down a dark path. You follow a false prophet. Grand Cleric Victoire knows better. The Inquisition has enemies and they are willing to provide her the means to stop you—”

Leliana laughs. “Stop us? You must be joking.”

“Your Herald will die. You will never be Divine. So kill me if you must. You cannot stop all of us.”

“But I’ll stop you. Don’t worry, Natalie. I’ll bring Victoire your regards. Take comfort in knowing that you’re the one who sent her to meet her Maker—” Her grip tightens on the blade, beginning to yank back. Evelyn grabs her arm. The blade stops an inch from Natalie’s neck. She’d forgotten how strong Evelyn is. Perhaps living with pain daily makes one stronger than can be imagined. Maybe her strength is returning after her lyrium addiction. Maybe it’s the desperation that moves her. “What are you doing?” Evelyn doesn’t release her. “They’re conspiring against us. They don’t believe in you. They want you dead!”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s a sister. We can’t do this.”

“ _You_ will do nothing. I can do as I see fit. The Maker can judge her deeds,” she sneers. “And mine.”

Natalie smashes a hand into her chest. Blinding pain spikes through Leliana, momentarily blinding her. Natalie breaks free and runs. Leliana chases after her. She hears Evelyn’s footsteps pounding and then she’s surpassed her. It doesn’t take her long to catch up to Natalie, snaking her arms around her before she makes it to the door. Natalie pants. “Are you going to kill me, Herald of Andraste? Or will you merely hand me over to your assassin? Do you think that makes your hands clean?”

“Her hands are clean,” Leliana says.

“Yes. As clean as Divine Justinia’s.”

Leliana’s lip twitches. “I can’t let her escape, Inquisitor.” Leliana brings a hand to her chest, her fingers come away red. Evelyn’s face softens. Leliana silences the question with a deadly look. “She’ll tell others what she saw here. The Inquisition will never get its reputation back.” She holds the blade tightly.

“Is this your Inquisition?” Natalie asks, practically gloating. “Killing for reputation?”

“What else does anyone kill for?” Leliana asks. That’s what it all boils down to, isn’t it? Even those who kill for coin gain status and through that, power. She thinks of the old days when she and Marjolaine killed together. Some part of her misses those days. One would distract, the other would take the killing blow. The love they made in celebration seemed to ease her initial fears. _Let’s do it together,_ she wants to say, as Marjolaine once said to her. She swallows the words. No. She won’t ruin Evelyn the way she was ruined. “Say your prayers, Natalie, but know that even the Maker can’t help you now.”

Evelyn half-drags Natalie back as Leliana approaches. Leliana pities her innocence and sorrows at the rift this will create between them.

“We can do something else,” Evelyn says. “Is this what we are? Murderers who kill our dissenters? We have to be better. Otherwise what’s it all for?”

“You think she’s innocent because she’s a sister? I was a sister once. No, Inquisitor. This is necessary. I swear to you.” She sees Evelyn’s eyes dim. She’ll reassure her later. “Let this be a warning to those who think to cross us—”

Natalie breaks free. Surprising, but desperation makes people strong. This is her chance. Leliana moves towards the fleeing sister, bringing the dagger back. She’ll bury it in her belly. She knows how that hurts. This woman does not deserve kindness. She would take Justinia’s death and use it for political advantage? She would conspire against the Inquisition and Evelyn with its enemies? She is a worm, long past her days. Sacrifice is necessary and if she must sacrifice every bit of her soul, so be it.

Leliana stops short. Evelyn’s grabbed Natalie, fingers clutching around her habit and yanking it away from her. Ashy brown hair spills loose. A prayer is said, loud, desperate and frantic, then hot splashes Leliana’s face. A terrible sound follows. She blinks and wipes blood from her face. Natalie gurgles and staggers forward, her hands reaching desperately at Leliana’s garb before she collapses at her feet. Blood pools around her, moving over the floor like snakes. Natalie flails, hands around her neck. She spasms and stops.

Evelyn looks at the body. Blood drips from her dagger. She looks at it, as if laying eyes on it for the first time. She wipes the blood from the dagger on her leg before sheathing it at her back.

Natalie’s robes absorb the blood. The cut is brutal, nearly separating her head from the rest of her. “What have you done?” her voice is hollowed.

Evelyn brings a hand over her mouth, smearing a bloody print over it. She closes her eyes, trying to stop the quaking. The white of her chest piece is drenched, the heraldry gone red. Leliana follows the trail up to her neck and chin, both splattered. She must have jerked Natalie’s head back and… Yes. Leliana doesn’t move. “What I had to. You’re not alone anymore.” Natalie’s eyes are open in terror. Evelyn’s brim with tears before she blinks them away. “We should see to what Justinia left you.”

Leliana watches her walk towards the secret room, the candles reduced to blobs of color, Evelyn’s shape becoming indistinguishable from the shadows.

 


	35. Fracture

A/N: Ten years later here I am with an update. I posted the last chapter a day before the election. Sigh. Resist, everyone. Hang in there. We're in for some scary times. 

* * *

 

_Hawke,_

_Perhaps I should call you Marian. I must tell you that no adviser is satisfied with the reports you have sent. Cullen has asked the templars stationed there to provide him with details; namely that of the women whom he reports were at the Blooming Rose and that of your friend Merrill._

_I would also implore you be less heated in your reports regarding the templars. I suspect Kirkwall and your past experiences color your judgment. I will not say that all templars are perfect but I do believe that mages and templars can work together cooperatively. There is a need for the Order. They will keep you and the citizens of Kirkwall safe._

_There is one other matter. I would prefer to tell you in person. I doubt it will amount to anything but I should let you know. I, along with Leliana, am being considered as Justinia’s replacement. I have not given it serious thought. I cannot even imagine such a role. The Chantry is necessary but I sometimes wonder if it can be righted. How long might such a feat take? It would require a great coming together._

_I believe you would make a joke there. If I am chosen as Divine… No. I do not believe that will happen. Please consider sending detailed reports. I do not wish for a tense situation to develop between you and the templars there. The Inquisition gave you the city with the expectation that you would serve us. I do not see you that way. I do not see it as a trade. You are a worthy leader but there are things I must say._

_These politics make me tired. I hope to be reunited with you soon. You are in my thoughts, you are in my prayers. I keep you close to my heart, Marian._

_Yours,_

_Cassandra_

Evelyn sits on the courtyard bench. She reads the letter and returns it to her wordlessly. Cassandra wonders whether the affection bothers her but it appears the Inquisitor has moved on. She returned from Valence over a week ago, after being absent nearly a month. She has been despondent and withdrawn.

Cassandra folds the letter. “I do not see why my correspondence must be monitored. I would hope that after all this time you trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Clearly.” The Inquisitor has no reaction. “Whatever happened in Valence, I am here for you if you wish to talk about it.” They once spoke of things. Cassandra refuses to believe that their rift was caused due to her rejection and relationship with Hawke.

“No, I’ve burdened you enough. The less you know, the better.” She stands and moves on her way. Cassandra wonders if she’s drinking lyrium again. The flush in her cheeks is there but it could be the cold. She sighs and wonders if things will ever be right with them again.

 

xxx

Josephine pins her hair back. She can still feel Blackwall’s fingers lingering along her back like fire. Is it passion or shame that burns her? Both…? He was quiet after their time together. Maybe he judges her for what she is. An engaged woman. A liar.

The Inquisitor and the Spymaster have returned. Only a fool would think the trip went off without a hitch. Evelyn is distracted during war room meetings, eyes sweeping off to some other place. Leliana is hawkish, her eyes landing like daggers everywhere she looks before some deep sadness touches them.

Is there trouble between them? Josephine sets upon gathering a basket for them. Shall she make one for each or one to be shared? She weighs the meaning of both gestures. Perhaps three baskets.

She’s in the kitchen, searching for the right bottle of wine when she notices a flurry from the corner of her eye. She turns. It’s that young ghost man in the dreadful clothes. She speculates on his pale visage. To have taken that shape. Why not a better one? One that looks as if it’s been touched by the light of day?

“This man was kind to me and sad,” he tells her. She frowns, not sure, whether it’s safe to look away. He is with the Inquisition so he cannot be entirely dangerous. _So is Leliana._ “They’re sad. But honey is sweet.” He stands beside her, the brim of his hat brushing the ruffles of her dress as he searches the wine rack. She takes a step away. “Wine will help. It isn’t in the drinking. It’s in the memory.”

She recalls the taste of wine on Evelyn’s lips the first time she kissed her. The sound the goblet made as she threw it at Otranto and it careened across the floor. She remembers too the taste of tears at the corners of her lips, how he told her later how she tasted of them. _You taste of sorrow, my betrothed._

“I think I am more than capable of selecting a wine.” Even if past memories have soured her of the task. The endeavor seems ridiculous now. Evelyn and Leliana are important to her. No basket will rectify whatever occurred. How is it that she’s so talented at getting what she wants from the nobility but struggles with those close to her? Perhaps because they are no longer close. She plucks a bottle of Antivan red for herself and leaves the kitchen. _But it’s not just wine,_ Cole calls after her.

He is a nuisance.

She heads to the rookery. The hour is early and she hopes those who see her won’t judge her as a drunkard. The path now feels unfamiliar, though she warrants that a visit to her study from the spymaster would be as unsettling.

She arrives at the top of the stairs. There’s a sharp gust of a cold, winter breeze. Their agents are about, some engaged in card games, others talking in whispers about recent mission outcomes.

Leliana is nowhere to be seen and then Josephine sees that small hole of an office. She moves towards it but can’t bear to knock. It would be clear to the others how she’s fallen in Leliana’s esteem. There can appear to be no fracture to others.

She opens the door and two sets of eyes turn their attention to her. Evelyn looks between the two of them. “Ambassador.” She nods to Leliana. “We’ll talk later.”

“This conversation isn’t finished,” Leliana says. Evelyn makes no response before exiting.

Josephine enters. The space is tight and nondescript. It is…private. She wonders if… no. She mustn’t allow herself to think of it. “It was not my intention to interrupt,” she apologizes.

“Then you should have knocked.” Leliana leafs through her papers, while Josephine steels herself. “Is there anything I can help you with, Ambassador?”

She smiles sadly. “Perhaps some guidance on how the spymaster and Inquisitor might remember my name again.” A poor joke. Leliana only gets a line across her forehead. “Ah, I have brought some wine,” she sets it on the table. “I thought we could share a glass.”

Leliana looks at the bottle dubiously. “It’s a bit early for a drink, no?”

“And since when do you follow conventions?”

“All right.” Josephine hands her the bottle and nearly detects a smirk as Leliana pulls the cork off. “You still have trouble with those after all this time?”

“I cannot help that Antivans know how to properly seal wine.”

“Hm.” She pulls out two goblets and allows Josephine to pour. “I know how you hate coming up here. So let’s skip the pleasantries and get to why you’ve come.”

“Are we no longer allowed pleasantries?”

She scoffs. “They’re reserved for those on pleasant terms. And I can’t remember the last time we were anything but colleagues.”

Josephine has a drink of wine to stow her nervousness, to still her tongue. “What if I said I have come only to see you?”

“Then I might doubt your words and question your motive.”

Josephine frowns. Leliana sighs but says nothing further. Josephine can’t determine whether the dryness in her mouth is the wine or the situation. “To be entirely transparent… I have noticed that neither you nor the Inquisitor are yourselves.”

“Does it please you?”

“Leliana, please.” There’s a small gulf of silence. “It is clear that something transpired in Valence. I thought to give you my ear if you have need of it.” Leliana picks up her goblet but doesn’t drink. “Certainly you have no obligation.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Leliana sets the goblet down without drinking. Josephine tries to quell her disappointment. “I’m not some diplomat whose tongue you can loose with a glass of wine.”

“I know that.”

The sharpness in her voice startles her. “Then why have you come? For months all you’ve had for me is distrust and resentment. And you expect for me to confide in you?”

“I do not ‘expect’ it.” A beat. “Do you wish for me to pretend that your relationship with the Inquisitor did not bother me? I cannot. She is the first person I loved. I lost her. But she has moved on and chosen you. I must accept that. I have. But must I lose you as well?” Leliana’s chin is held tight. “You were my only constant throughout this horrible Inquisition. Being without you has been a misery. I only wanted to remind you that I am still here if you have the need.” Perhaps she should have sent the basket instead.

Leliana’s lips thin. “Part of me wants to believe you. The other part wonders if you’re here, trying to curry favor in case I get the Divineship appointment.” She smiles mirthlessly.

Josephine straightens the ruffles of her dress. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“As am I.”

They drink in silence.

 

xxx

They’ve been sparring for minutes. Dorian watches, arms crossed over his chest, unsure of whom to root for. His silly cousin or the gorgeous Commander. The answer should be neither. Both are templars, both have a stick up their ass. But at least Evelyn is out of the bloody chantry. Night and day she’s there, on her knees before the statue of Andraste. What does she seek? What prayers has she need of answering? Can even Andraste help them against Corypheus?

Cullen lands a blow, his shield striking her temple. Dorian winces, forcing himself to remain still. Blood spills like a small river down the side of her face. She doesn’t seem to notice it. The attack brings no fire to her. She remains frighteningly calm. He shifts his stance from one leg to another.

Evelyn dodges Cullen’s swipe, swinging the greatsword to practically cleave his shield in two. He jumps back, throwing aside the remains, but she jabs, her efforts focused, controlled, menacing. Dorian allows flame to curl around his fingers. He darts a hand out. She looks at him and the flame dries up, swallowed by the air, taken from this plain.

Ah.

Cullen sighs, lowering his sword, running a hand through his curling hair. Everyone’s uncomfortable. “We need to speak, Cousin.”

Evelyn pulls the gauntlets off, squinting as blood runs into her eye. “No, we don’t.” She wipes haphazardly at the blood and only smears it. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Evelyn looks to Cullen. “We’ll pick this up later.” She has the good grace to look embarrassed. Cullen leaves, swallowing his words, looking a haunted man. She gathers her sword and heads to the keep. Dorian follows after her, both maneuvering the group of nobles clustered in the grand hall. They look at both with interest but Evelyn heads to her chambers, massaging her left hand and arm, as if vexed by it. So it’s still bothering her. Can a mortal survive such a mark? She stops short at the door. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Does Leliana know?” She turns, pushing into door and beginning the trek to her quarters. Dorian goes after her. “What happened while you were gone?”

“A romantic getaway, just as you envisioned.”

He guffaws. “You’ve always been a poor liar, it’s one of my favorite qualities about you.”

“You’re wrong. I’ve always been an excellent liar.” She stops, overlooking the wooden beams below. This area was open once before someone finally realized having the Inquisitor’s private quarters accessible to anyone might not be the best idea. “I’ve deceived people. My family and lovers. It was always easy for me.” She sighs, deflating and continuing up the stairs.

“You are a noble. It’s in our blood.”

“Deception grows tiring.” She enters her chambers and goes to the desk, taking out a lyrium draught. Dorian hadn’t expected a chill. “I’m sorry if this disappoints you.” She doesn’t sound sorry.

“Won’t you at least tell me what happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She takes a breath, palms on the desk. “The point is I did take it. I battle Corypheus soon. This was never a principled stand I should have been allowed to take. I’ve been telling myself the others are used to the disappointment. I think that takes the sting off.”

“Are you sure it isn’t the lyrium?”

She smiles mirthlessly, her fingers shaking as she reaches for the drink. “When I took it again it felt as if I’d been swallowed by ice. Like Haven. I’ve thought about it every second of the day since I stopped. It’s always been at the back of my mind. I thought of it more than the war, more than Thedas, more than Leliana. Priorities, and all that.” She utters a kind of bitter laugh. “I thought it would be better.”

“You can stop. You have before.”

“No. It’s too late. I need it. At least for now.” She drinks it, wiping her lips gingerly, closing her eyes for an instant. “You’re an apostate. You don’t know what it is to hear the song of the Maker when you drink it.”

“As it brings you closer to his side, no doubt.”

She touches her bleeding temple and he goes over, tsking. “Let me take care of that.” She sits obediently on the desk. He begins the task of mending her skin and she allows him to work, closing her eyes, head bowed. “By the way, Bull has been meaning to speak to you. I believe there’s a way for his qunari countrymen to ally with the Inquisition.”

“I don’t care to be allied to a group that believes such nonsense.”

“As opposed to the completely sensible teachings of the Chantry.” He isn’t able to keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice. She says nothing. “You could give it a try. This is Thedas we’re talking about.”

“No. I’ve sinned enough.”

 

xxx

There are whispers among the Kirkwall mages regarding the missing Venatori leaders. It is beginning to spread like wildfire in the camp. Templars are becoming uneasy and starting to crack down on the mages in efforts to stamp out any potential rebellions. The situation has been simmering for weeks. Today a templar struck down a mage in plain view of the courtyard. A small riot broke out. Several templars and mages have been taken to the holding cells.

“Is anyone surprised this has happened?” Josephine asks. “The surrendering mages from Kirkwall were promised forgiveness and safety. Instead, a good number of their leadership has disappeared in the night and been imprisoned. Even I do not know what has happened to these individuals.” She looks pointedly at Leliana who remains impassive.

“The situation is not ideal,” Cassandra says. But she’s as clueless as Josephine is. This business with the Venatori—Leliana has been unusually possessive about it. Cassandra has not forgotten how Leliana seemed after leaving their side. There was a speck of blood on her face. Had she not known Leliana for as long as she has, she might have confused it for a freckle or missed it altogether. But her eyes, once warm, later icy, have become impenetrable. What has she done? What has she planned? “Simply put, the matter should have been contained some time ago. They should have been released or killed or judged but we have sat on our hands.”

“ _We_?” Cullen asks. “You pretend we have been involved in any step of this decision making?” He looks at Leliana. “It seems to me the Inquisitor and Leliana are making the decisions. Speaking of which,” he says, his words growing more heated, “when were you thinking of letting us know that the Inquisitor is taking lyrium again?”

They all look to Leliana. Is it true? She had her suspicions but nothing solid. It is news to Josephine. It is not news to the spymaster. Cullen may as well not have said anything. Leliana has not reacted. “That’s private,” is all she says.

Cullen blinks. “Are you joking?”

“How could you not tell us?” Cassandra demands. “Are we no longer even colleagues to you? You cannot leave us out of these matters!”

Josephine touches the war table lightly. “Please. We cannot argue among ourselves. We have come too far to allow everything to fall apart.” Cassandra grounds her jaw. “But Cassandra and Cullen make a point. Why _haven’t_ we been informed? We stood together as a group—”

“Yes,” Leliana says, “and you all wanted to keep her shackled. And here she is, leashed as you wanted, and you object?”

Her words are poison. Cassandra curls her fingers, her nails digging into the palms of her hand. “Do not pretend the matter is so simple.” She looks to Cullen, who looks slightly more unkempt than usual. She wants to ask him if he’s well, but given the topic, the conversation, this would not be the appropriate time. “We can point fingers later. In the meantime, Commander, have you any idea what this means for the Inquisitor?”

“It’s hard to say. Lyrium withdrawal leaves you fatigued… your memories are scattered, you become paranoid and hallucinate. She has not spoken with me about it. I can’t be sure how much she’s taking. I can’t say I’ve known any templars who’ve stopped and then started again. If nothing else I would caution against overconfidence. Lyrium boosts a templars abilities—”

“It also makes them unfeeling and unsympathetic,” Josephine says. “At least, that is my understanding.”

“Should we bring her in here?” Cassandra asks. “Insist that she stop with this madness?”

Cullen shakes his head. “It would not be wise. She had made strides. Significant, perhaps. But it’s been undone. We will face Corypheus soon. Forcing her to stop taking lyrium now… it would not bode well for her or the Inquisition. It might get her killed. The unfortunate truth is that she’s a better warrior this way. Perhaps she’ll be more clearheaded.” He looks to Leliana. “How could you allow this to happen?”

“That is enough, Commander.” Cassandra sighs. “I do not imagine Leliana wished for this outcome any more than any of us.” If she expects gratitude she doesn’t get it. “We must return to the basics. All of us must watch over her, more diligently than ever.” Maker help them all.

“More importantly,” Josephine says, “we must attend to the matter of the mage-templar conflicts in Skyhold. We cannot afford a rebellion. All of us must stand united if we are to battle Corypheus. But to address the matter, we must all be aware of what has happened since the mages from Kirkwall were transferred here. Only Leliana and her agents have those answers and I think it is time that we did as well.”

“Some of the Venatori mages are dead,” Leliana says.

Josephine narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“They were not so forthcoming as they could have been. I did not trust they were willing to forget their Tevinter ties.”

“And so you killed them?”

“Yes.”

“What of the others?” Cullen asks. “You are not the head of this Inquisition. These are mage matters. The templars must be allowed to oversee them.”

“Templars alone cannot be trusted to oversee them.”

“Rich words from the woman who has been dispatching them without oversight. From the woman involved with our templar Inquisitor—”

“ _You_ think to judge me—” Leliana retorts.

“This meeting is accomplishing nothing,” Josephine says. “I recommend we reconvene at another time. Perhaps with our dear Inquisitor in attendance.” Cassandra does not miss how Leliana glares at her. “Whatever we do with the remaining Venatori, we must decide soon before unrest and rumors within Skyhold reaches a boiling point. Agreement to adjourn?” There’s a murmur of agreement and Josephine bows her head, glancing quickly at Leliana before exiting. Cullen follows.

Cassandra sighs inwardly. They are meant to get better at this, not worse, as they move along. Leliana moves around the table, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You and Cullen have always been at odds but this is something more.” Leliana touches her finger to the map along the Dales and then looks at her. “It is pointless to ask. You never answer but I must ask. Are you all right?”

“A hard woman is always well. Nothing touches her.” She lifts her eyes above and sighs. “Cassandra.” She waits. “Before we left for Valence you tried to tell me something. You told me protecting the Inquisitor was more than arrows and swords and I laughed at you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re apologizing. Now I’m worried.” Leliana is quiet once more. “I’ve tried asking the Inquisitor but she won’t speak of it.”

“She’s trying to protect me. How like her. Isn’t it funny? I never thought I’d have anyone like her in my life again. She has loved me better than anyone else has.” Her chin trembles. “I thought I was making her strong. But I ruined her.”

 

xxx

_I’ve gone. This must surprise you, given how often I’ve asked that you stay. However, I can no longer remain with the Inquisition and risk its reputation. Nor can I tarnish you further. I have always been unworthy of you. That I allowed either of us to think that I could be a worthy man to you was a cruel mistake. I can no longer hide from my past. It is time for me to atone. I will not be returning. Think of me no longer. I am not even the man you knew._

Josephine holds the letter until the fire in her heart grows cold and extinguishes, until the room stops spinning. What madness is this? How could he write such a thing? Is it a joke? Some prank of Sera’s? But no. She recognizes this hand. He wrote it. She stands unsteadily and goes to the barn. One of the horses is gone: his favorite, a white stallion with a long mane. She searches but finds nothing of him. There is the rocking horse he worked on. She looks above to the loft, calls out to him but there is no answer.

After looking around she takes the rungs of the ladder, disliking the feel of it against her palms and climbs. This is most unseemly. She climbs high enough to peer around. His bed is empty, his things gone. She climbs back down, flushed and dizzy. She asks the merchants. They have not seen him.

Finally, as night slinks into the sky, she begins the walk back to the Keep, her legs unsteady. Gone. Just like that? Another one disappeared with little explanation. Her eyes burn. She walks briskly and slams into a figure. Josephine lifts heated eyes. Evelyn’s are as grey and cool as winter. She grips her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

 

xxx

They go into the study where Josephine struggles to regain her composure. Evelyn sits opposite her on the other side of the desk. The fireplace crackles. Evelyn has a cut across her forehead. Josephine thinks of stitching her lips together and wonders if she’ll ever forget that time in the cabin.

Evelyn looks at her then as if hearing her thought. So, she is taking lyrium again. Isn’t that what she’d wanted? What they’d all wanted? And yet that distance is there again, in her eyes, a familiar distance, a steadiness that Josephine nearly finds soothing. She was like this the majority of the time she was with her, wasn’t she? Now she sits, facing her but not seeing her. Only in Skyhold has she ever been irrelevant.

“You never answered my question,” Evelyn says. She inclines her head to the door, gesturing at the hall, Josephine imagines. “You’re upset. I can always tell.”

Her smile is bashful and tired. Josephine is flung into warmer memories. She must chill them. “Blackwall has gone. He left a letter.” She must go cold. She gives the letter to Evelyn who sits and reads it. Josephine is unsure if the fireplace has colored her cheeks or the words of the letter. “This is—it is quite…” she bites her tongue. “It is quite inconceivable to me.”

“What’s this about?”

“I do not know,” she sputters. “It seems everyone is content to leave me in the dark.” Evelyn folds the letter and returns it to her. She remembers how jealous she once was over Blackwall’s letters. “He is gone then. After so much bravado, he has left the Inquisition.” The Inquisitor smiles. “And you find it so amusing?”

“If only you’d seen him escape in the night you might have blackmailed him into staying as you did with me.”

“It was not blackmail.”

“What would you call it?”

Josephine does not know. Exhortation. Manipulation. The usual thing she does with her marks when she is called upon to employ diplomacy. “The Inquisition can survive without Ser Blackwall. The same cannot be said of you.”

The smile vanishes. “We’ll find him.”

“Is that really the best use of our resources?”

“No.”

She is maddening. “Well. I assure you, you have no need to stay here and watch over me. I am quite well.” She takes out a sheet of paper and gathers her quill and ink. She used to sit here writing letters while Evelyn read history books or Varric’s filthy novels. Evelyn stands. Oh. So she will leave after all. Josephine rises, straightening her dress. She is not sure whether to bring up the matter with the lyrium. She doubts she would speak with her of it. “I thank you for your company, however brief.” Evelyn allows a small nod. They walk together to the study door. Evelyn lingers there. “Is there something further, Inquisitor?”

She gazes at her thoughtfully. “Would you leave Lord Otranto for Blackwall?” Josephine colors. “Does Otranto even know about him? You remain an engaged woman.”

“I do not see how it concerns you.”

“You haven’t answered the question.” Evelyn steps into the hall. “You haven’t changed at all. If he’s not worth fighting for, there’s no sense in expending the resources to return him to us. Keep your letter. It’s the last you’ll have of him.” She blinks, as if waking from a dream, then nods, leaving her.

 

xxx

The box was empty.

Never had lightness felt so heavy and damning. Evelyn stood beside her, paralyzed, Sister Natalie’s blood still dripping from her.

Leliana looks in the chantry but Evelyn isn’t there. She isn’t in the library. She isn’t in her room. She tracks her down outside the Venatori holding cells. The guards have gone. Evelyn’s horse is tied to a nearby tree. Leliana doesn’t dismount. “Inquisitor. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s late, for one, and there are no Inquisition guards. The Venatori are dangerous.”

“Not anymore.”

So she refers to the lyrium. “Do not overestimate your abilities.” She holds her sigh. “Let us return to Skyhold. Cullen has made it plain that you and I are not the sole authorities on what comes of these men and women.”

“When did he make that determination?”

“At a war room meeting where we met to discuss you.” Evelyn looks up at her but it’s too dark to meet her eyes. “He knows you’re drinking lyrium. Now all the advisors know.” Evelyn lowers her head in consideration. Leliana outstretches a hand. “Come.” Evelyn ignores it. A chill settles over her. “Please, Evelyn.”

Evelyn takes her hand and Leliana helps tug her onto the back of the horse. She’ll send someone for Evelyn’s horse later. She doesn’t trust Evelyn won’t go off on her own if she allows her to ride back. Evelyn’s hands are tentative on her hips. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone shy.” She needs to tease her. She needs to restore some sense of normality. When Evelyn doesn’t react, Leliana pulls her arms around her waist. Evelyn leaves them there.

They’ve discussed little since the cloister in Valence. It was all for naught. Evelyn hasn’t said so but Leliana knows that’s what she’s thinking. A sister killed for nothing. All Evelyn has are the reassurances, taken from Leliana’s book. _Sacrifices are necessary._ That’s what Evelyn said to her as she left the tiny room, as she stepped over Natalie, clearly disoriented.

“I would like to join you tonight,” Leliana tells her. “Or has our journey left you with your fill of me?”

“No.” Leliana doesn’t know what she means. Then: “It hasn’t.”

They reach Skyhold and dismount the horse. Leliana sets the saddle aside while Evelyn moves around the stable, searching for what, she isn’t sure. Whatever it is, she finds nothing and agrees with Leliana that she’s ready to move on. They walk side by side in the darkness. Leliana reaches her hand out to Evelyn’s, takes it, fearful she’ll pull away. She doesn’t and they make their way to the great hall, past the stragglers, up the stairs to her chambers and still Leliana does not release her.

Evelyn looks at her. Leliana gathers her courage. “Do you hate me?” Evelyn’s silent. The lyrium has once again rendered her unreadable. “I would understand if you do.”

“I would sooner hate the stars.” She lets her go, running a hand through her hair as she makes her way to the desk. Leliana sees the lyrium kit there. Her throat dries as she begins to prepare a new batch of draught. “Blackwall has left. Did Josephine tell you?” She hasn’t. “She remains unchanged. Her reputation for all the love of the world. If that is what it was. I considered sending our agents after him but for what purpose? I don’t want anyone here that would willingly leave the Inquisition. I’m a special case.” She lifts her hand, as if the matter were a joke. Green light crackles through it. Will the lyrium dampen her pain? Will she die without warning?

“She hasn’t told me. But that isn’t why I’m here. We haven’t spoken since Valence. We’ve said nothing real.” Evelyn looks away, focusing on the lyrium. “Will you look at me?” She does. Leliana goes to the desk, Evelyn’s gaze is like a mirror, showing everything and nothing at once. Leliana struggles with her words. “I miss you.”

“I’m here.”

Leliana pushes aside the draught. Evelyn follows it with her eyes. Leliana takes her hands, drawing her over to the settee. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I haven’t slept a night since what happened in that cloister. I think you must feel the same but I don’t know. You haven’t told me. I know what the lyrium has done for you. I know how it hides what hurts.” She palms her face, finds that cut on her brow. “People can do the same without the aid of lyrium. I often have. I thought it made me strong.” Evelyn pulls her face away and Leliana settles her hands in her lap.

“You think me weak?”

“No.” She remembers their return to the cabin from the cloister. Evelyn sat before the fire for what seemed ages. Leliana was lost in her thoughts. Later Evelyn kissed her. All Leliana could taste was iron and lightning. She knew then that Evelyn had caved to the lyrium, pushed there by her actions. “I think I failed you. I know I have. I was meant to protect you. I never said, but even at our most combative, I admired you. When you spoke about sacrifice in the cloister, it frightened me. Your words were my words. You have loved me so well. So cleanly. Without asking for anything in return. Do you know how rare that is? It has been for me. All others have taught me that I _am_ the darkness, that I _am_ deception. To revel in it. They encouraged what was most base in me and made it sound like a blessing that I could do what they could not. I allowed them to keep their hands clean. But you saw something more. You tried to pull me to the light but instead were drawn into the dark. My words, my actions, thrust you into the shadows. And now you’ve done things that you hate yourself for— because of me. _For_ me. I am so, so sorry.” Evelyn’s silent. “I understand if you have no wish to speak to me. But I will wait until you will have me. I will wait forever, if that’s what it takes.” She stands.

Evelyn looks up at her. “Don’t go.”

 

xxx

They lie beneath the sheets, legs tangled together. Evelyn traces the scar where the arrow nearly took her heart. Some time ago she might have felt self-conscious to be seen by a lover in this way. Once she had no scars but that seems like long ago. Even now the ones on her body don’t compare to those marks on her heart and soul, those scars of memory that have atrophied her emotions and changed her.

Leliana leans over, feathering kisses along Evelyn’s cheek and brow, over her shoulder. She’s pale and her scars are much brighter. Her left arm continues to radiate too much heat. If it bothers her, she keeps it to herself. She lies now, eyes half-closed, as if lost in thought.

“I know I’ve disappointed everyone.” She looks at Leliana, some sadness touching her face at long last. “I’m never as strong as I want to be.”

Leliana touches her face. Evelyn closes her eyes. “You are strong.”

“I want to ask you something but I’m afraid you’ll be angry.”

She feels the stirrings of dread. “I won’t be.”

She opens her eyes, summons her courage. “How have you done this so long? Been the knife in the dark?” Leliana continues to stroke her face. “You’ve been used. By everyone. By _me_. For expediency. To make a point.” Her chin quivers. Leliana keeps her fingers to it until it stills. “It’s not right.”

“I provided a service of my own volition.”

“But you loved them. How willing were you?”

“Willing enough.” In the beginning, anyway. It was exciting and new with Marjolaine. A game, the Game. Nothing that troubled her. The Warden told her to accept herself. When Dorothea called for her to serve, it was easy. The Maker and Justinia were all she had. Why not serve both? She never anticipated all the blood that would spill. Her enemies, her agents. It only thinned in her veins until all that remained was ice water. “Why are you the Inquisitor? Isn’t the answer because people expect it of you? Because you’re the only one who can? The same goes for me. I lack something that others have. I don’t like it but what does the world care? I owe it to the people of Thedas, don’t I? Damn my morality. Damn my soul.”

“I don’t want this for you.”

“I don’t want it, either.” She takes her hand, holds it close. “I can’t leave the work. I’ve thought about it so much my head hurts. But the path I’ve been on… I don’t have to keep following it. You sacrificed something for me. A piece of your soul and wellbeing, so I wouldn’t be stripped to nothing. That means something.” She scoots close enough their stomachs touch. “I’ve been thinking of that box. Empty. Except for one thing. _The Left Hand should set aside her burden._ She was releasing me. Or so she tried. But after everything—how can I? What would it mean to stop now? Would so much sacrifice be for nothing? And then I thought of you, my Night Wraith. I should have seen it in her clues. _Always remember that faith is sprung from a barren branch. That light has no fear of the dark. That strength lives in an open heart._ I’d forgotten that. As I’d forgotten that Justinia always said compassion was my greatest strength. ‘Doubt is easy. It takes courage to trust.’” She smiles thinking of it. “It must surprise you, no? Who is that woman Justinia spoke of? Will you ever see her?”

“I see her now.”

Leliana smiles faintly. “I loved her once. In a way I can’t describe. She was more than a friend, more than a mentor. But she used me and as soon as she vanished I hated what I was left with. I don’t want to keep losing myself. If I do, what will be remain for either of us? No one that can sit at the side of the Maker. No one worthy of you. After all of this is over, and we’ve led our boring lives… I want to be at your side.”

“If you’re not careful I’ll think you’re offering to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“Well. Would that be so bad?” Evelyn’s smile is watery. She closes her eyes and takes a breath. “Have I made you cry?” She teases, kissing her. Evelyn returns it, rolling her onto her back. She’s thinner now, athletic figure having lost some of its muscle tone. Has she been fasting? The guilt comes again. Leliana glides her hands along her back, pushing the hair away from her face. “You look so serious. What is it?”

“I love you.”

Leliana looks at her. “As I love you.” Evelyn looks pained. If it were anyone else she’d expect a knife. She forces her body to relax.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Evelyn hesitates. She shifts and she’s on her side again. Whatever she wants to say, she isn’t ready to say it. Leliana runs her fingers through her hair. “Do you want to talk about what happened in Valence?”

A long silence passes. “Which part? So much has changed. It seems like everything.”

“You wanted to know about me. Perhaps you know too much.” Evelyn shakes her head in disagreement. “And do not play coy with me. You know what I refer to.”

“I’ve killed people before. Not only apostates. Templars. Assassins.” She smiles though there’s no joy in it. “Duchesses. Girls who foolishly gave their lives for me.” She means Flissa. She frowns. “And all those deaths I ordered on behalf of the Inquisition. I own them all. My hands were never clean. But you let me think it. You let others think it.”

They’re quiet.

“This death felt different. I can remember the force. And the heat of her blood as it washed over me. Her eyes. The Herald of Andraste did that. I have made the Inquisition into the monster she claimed it to be. I thought the lyrium would help. It hasn’t helped. It’s brought the wrong focus. No matter how hard I try, I can’t bury it deeply enough. I don’t know how to make it to away.”

“It never goes away. It gets easier. There are times you almost forget but it’s never gone. If I could go back—”

“I wouldn’t change anything.” Leliana’s throat tightens. She won’t argue. The Inquisitor is stubborn and she knows if their roles were reversed, she would feel the same. “You’re not alone.” No. She no longer feels that way. “Leliana…” Her eyes clear, present, focused. “You’ve given enough. Everything, for everyone. If you continue, I don’t know what will remain. I’m sorry. But I cannot support your candidacy for Divine. I won’t.”

The words don’t register right away. When they do she realizes she’s been holding her breath. She exhales shakily. So. That’s over now. Had she wanted it? She doesn’t know. Evelyn touches her face. Another thing to riddle her with guilt. “It’s all right,” Leliana says to her.

“It might mean nothing. What is the word of a heretic Inquisitor? Vivienne is opposed to your appointment.”

The news doesn’t surprise her. “How much of this is due to our opposing philosophies?”

“Not enough. I would ruin this world for you.”

“Oh.” How sweet. She closes her eyes, pressing close to her, nestling her face in her neck. “Why not save it, instead?”

Her hand lights on her shoulder. “I’ve thought about stopping the lyrium. But you saw how I was. Disoriented. Weak. Paranoid.” Leliana says nothing. She won’t tell her Cullen agrees. “I can’t risk that again. Not now. Not when it matters.” She takes a breath. “Morrigan is beginning her final preparations with the Eluvians. But I worry about you.”

“For me? Why?”

“I’m afraid he’s going to kill me.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
